One Night
by Mirrordance
Summary: He was going under the knife tomorrow. He wasn't sure if he was going to wake up. It was perfectly excusable to torment his estranged brother at Stanford for one night, wasn't it? Set Pre-Pilot, that last time Dean bothered Sam before Episode 1.
1. Chapter 1

Author:Mirrordance

Title: One Night

Summary:He was going under the knife tomorrow. He wasn't sure if he was going to wake up. It was perfectly excusable to torment his estranged brother at Stanford for one night, wasn't it? Set Pre-Pilot, that last time Dean bothered Sam before Episode 1.

" " "

**One Night**

" " "

1

California

" " "

It was raining outside. Cats and dogs insane rain, like God was throwing everything at you, kitchen sink, bath tub, shower and all.

He jogged to the building door and was soaked to the skin, even though he just parked his car across the street. He coughed wetly on his sleeve, used same sleeve to swipe at his mouth. If there was any blood, he did not see, nor did he care, really. He wasn't gonna stay long, he didn't give a shit about looking too neat. Besides, blood on a Winchester's sleeve? That was just like a coffee stain on a lawyer's tie, or chalk on a teacher's elbows. Just another day on the job, here...

Car after car lined the road around the apartment building. He had found a lucky little hole in a tight spot, like no one else could get into or out of, like only he knew how. The Impala stuck out like a rock n' roll flipping finger, gleaming and lordly in the rain against the surrounding prissy/pricey cars. There was a party going on, despite the foul weather, and he just let himself inside.

It wasn't his first time there, so he knew precisely where to go. He was getting weird glances here and there, and it wasn't the first time for this either. Up and down the length of his ratty old clothes from the men, up and down the length of his body from most of the women. The people here had the smart, airy, _expensive_ looks of overindulgent intellectuals. The men looking down on him. The women thinking all they had to do was want and try and they'd get him (if they only knew, this was as true of barmaids as it was of college coeds).

He recognized the look, because Sam had that sometimes, like when they'd walk into a bar together, him, dad and way back when he was still 'Sammy' and he just looked a bit more expensive than everyone else, a bit _misplaced_. Dean should have known, damn it, even at age four Sam seemed set apart from the rest of 'em.

The music was blaring. It was shitty-assed stuff, like the lame ones you keep hearing on the radio, over and over. A bunch of drones, these kids.

He grabbed a beer, smiled sourly at the guy manning the tap, who was looking at him as if he could see right through that Dean was an outsider.

Crasher.

Trespasser.

Unwelcome.

_Or maybe it's just me_, Dean thought, that old feeling hitting him again, old anxieties, old fears...

_I shouldn't have come._

_He's probably busy._

_He doesn't want me here._

_He'll have better things to do..._

But he was going under the knife tomorrow, damn it. He wasn't sure if he was ever going to wake up. It was perfectly excusable to torment his estranged brother at Stanford for one night, wasn't it?

" " "

"For the last damn time," came the irate reply to the uncharacteristically polite knock, "Get laid somewhere else!"

Dean found the retort funny. His lip quirked, as he stood against the door of his brother's room.

"But don't you miss me even a little bit, sweetheart?"

Pause. Dean pressed his ear to the door.

Potent, unbearable silence.

And then the sounds of a flurry of comedic movement. From inside, he heard the distinct sound of slamming books, things falling on the floor, the scraping of a chair, a muffled "Ow, damn it," and the thundering footsteps of his favorite Sasquatch lumbering toward the door. He stepped back from it as it was thrown wide open.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, "What the hell are you doing here?"

_Why does he look taller every time I see him_, Dean wondered inanely, looking up at his brother with an uncontrollably goofy grin on his face. He couldn't help it, couldn't stop it. He wanted to come here all cool and suave, damn it. He had come in scared shit-less instead, and two seconds later he was grinning like an idiot. Sam just tore him up like that, all the fucking time.

Dean raised up the untouched plastic cup brimming with brew, "I was looking for a beer."

Sam shook his head at his brother in mixed amusement and dismay. Dean hoped he was the only one who can tear Sam up like that too, "One of these days, Dean, I just might believe you."

Dean grinned wider, and offered the cup to Sam. "This one's yers. Mine's gone home already," he lied, patting at his stomach. His doctor wouldn't have been amused to find alcohol in his system. Which made the prospect more tempting, of course, but he didn't want to hang around the hospital any longer than he needed to.

"Nah," Sam said, shaking his head, "I can't. I'm--" he ran a weary hand over his eyes, "I'm kind of--"

"Studying, huh?" Dean asked, peering inside the room (noting that he wasn't at all being invited inside), trying to keep the disappointment from his face, "You have like, what, a test or something?"

"_The_ test," Sam replied in a breathy, tired laugh, "Yeah..."

"Sorry," Dean said, spreading his arms out and shrugging, "I uh... I guess I shoulda called first, checked if you were busy..."

_Set a fricking appointment_, he thought bitterly, except he kept it to himself because it would have let too much of his pain out.

_That is_, he added, _If you answer the phone at all. Which you seldom do, lately_. _You're living in the California sunshine, dude. I hunt around in the dark and climb trees to get a fricking signal. How hard is it to pick up a ringing phone in your pocket?_

Sam smiled tightly, the light not at all reaching his eyes. He planted his hands to his hips, looking more than a little bit confrontational, as if ready to defend himself from anything Dean might say to try and convince him to ditch the books and hang out instead. Which Dean might have done any other night except he wasn't in any shape to bite this time. He had every plan of keeping his mouth shut, afraid of the blood and the truth and the pain that might get spilled out.

"I should go," Dean said with a smiling wince, the way only he knew how to mix them.

Sam's brows furrowed in surprise. "What?"

"Well you're busy," Dean pointed out, "No big deal, bro. I was just in the area..."

_An embarrassing lie_, he chided himself. It sounded like something he'd tell a chick, and a not-so-smart one at that. So of course Sam picked up on the nuance because he was, well he wasn't a chick, obviously, and he was far from stupid too.

"You just wrapped up a job here?" Sam asked, skeptically.

"Yup," Dean said, decided to dig in deeper, "Not like I went all the way out here just to see you, Stanford. If you're busy, like I said, it's no biggie. I can always catch up with you later."

Sam frowned at him. "Dean... is there anything going on that I should know about?"

_I never could fool you_, Dean thought, _Not at aged eight and most certainly not now_.

"Is dad okay?" Sam asked.

"He's fine," Dean replied, "I'm fine, every thing's fine. I was just around, I said. I'll be by again one of these days. No biggie."

_Gotta stop saying that_.

"It's just that I haven't seen you in ages," Sam said, still looking suspicious, "And I know there's a bunch of hunters based here who usually take care of what's going on--"

"Why would I lie, huh?" Dean asked him with a confident smirk.

Sam looked at him wryly, and knowingly, making the confident look slip down a notch.

_You'd lie_, those perceptive eyes were saying, _Because you're John Winchester's son, and it's always easier to lie than to say _I miss you, _or_ I just wanted to see how you were.

Dean waved irately at him, "Whatever, dude. I'm motoring." He looked at Sam wistfully, and nodded toward the desk and the books. "You ah... you still killing them out there?"

"I'm one of the best," Sam said, proudly, and before Dean's eyes, seeming as if he was going taller again.

Dean smiled, open, heartfelt, and generous this time. "That's good, bro."

"Thanks for dropping by, Dean," Sam said, "I'm really sorry--"

"Don't flake out on me now," Dean chuckled, patting his arm, "Hit the books, dude, I'm not crying myself to sleep about this or anything. I'll see you soon."

He turned on his heel, began to walk away. His wet boots and clothes were making awkward, squishy noises on the corridors. He could feel his brother watching him. Every step, every single movement.

_It's okay to miss me too, bro_, Dean thought, _Guess we're both John's kids after all._

The silence was weighty. When did this damn hall get so long? And was Sam really just gonna stand by his fricking door and watch him walk away? Wasn't he supposed to be studying by now? Dean was getting annoyed.

"You're burning a hole through my jacket, dude," Dean growled under his breath, as he kept on walking toward the stairwell.

Every step away from Sam was inexplicably pissing him off more and more. He went all this way to see Sam, damn it. It was the first time they saw each other in so long. Worse, it could be the last time they'd ever get to. And this was how it's gonna be? The two of them dancing around each other like this? Sam was his _brother_, damn it, he had every right to stick around and be a bother, even for just a few minutes.

_But he doesn't want me here_...

_Wait a minute, _I'm_ sick so _I_ should get what I want._

_But he'll hate me if he fucks up that test tomorrow. I don't want him to fuck it up. On top of that, I'd hate for him to hate me._

_He'll hate me so much more if the doctors fuck _me_ over tomorrow and the last time we see each other goes down like this--_

He turned around, and walked fast before he changed his mind. He changed trajectories, going back to his brother. Sam had a strange look on his face, a mixture of dread and relief. Their time apart has raised up a fricking brick wall between them, that was certain sure.

_I can tear it down_, Dean thought, determinedly, _I gotta. I can fix us._

"Forget something?" Sam asked.

"Why so cautious, Sammy?" Dean asked, good-naturedly, reigning in his temper. He peered over Sam's shoulder into his room, "You're not hiding a chick in there or anything, are you?"

"No," Sam snorted.

"Good," Dean grinned, cheekily, tilting and moving around Sam, letting himself into his brother's room.

"Dean..." Sam sighed, "I really do have to work--"

"I won't bother you, I promise," Dean said, "I just... you mind if I take a shower and change clothes here, bro? I'm soaked through. I'd really, _really_ hate to catch pneumonia and die or something."

He coughed for effect, and it was only half-fake.

"You've been through worse, I'm sure," said Sam, wryly, but his eyes had clouded in worry, as Dean had expected them to. "Go ahead, dude. I also got some clothes I can spare. Some old stuff I grew out of. I'm sure they'd fit _you_."

"Very funny, Sasquatch," Dean snapped, though he did appreciate the jibe, and the light that was finally returning to his brother's eyes. It was a very fair start.

" " "

_Everything's fine, right_?

He had watched his older brother walk away, looking for signs that he was hurt or uncomfortable. He seemed fine. And he wouldn't be acting like such a doofus if their father was in trouble. Checklist done, dad and Dean alive. All the other complicated stuff in between, he knew he could live with.

_More or less_.

He stared at the cacophony of weaponry that came from Dean's soaked form, laid out on the floor by his bed, when his older brother was stripping to head to the shower. He forgot how fricking big that knife was, and how the hell Dean managed to go anywhere so damn packing like this.

Sam threw a sidelong glance at the half-open, steaming bathroom door. Dean kept the curtains drawn but the door open, and made random commentary here and there. Everything they both said to each other had to be said twice, to be heard over the blowers and the water.

"So you're sure everything's fine, right?" Sam asked.

"What?" Dean asked back, "You said something?"

"What?" Sam asked, not hearing him.

"I didn't hear you!" Dean said, "What did you say!"

"Everything's fine?!" Sam asked, irately because he hated repeating himself.

"Everything's fine!" Dean said, "Seriously, dude."

"What?!"

And so on. They talked about random things. Sam's sissy shampoo and separate hair conditioner (which Dean used anyway). Sam's overpriced aftershave (which Dean also used). Dean not leaving his dirty clothes and borrowed towels on the floor. It was funny how, while not looking at each other, things kind of felt like back when they were younger. Small, motel bathroom. Sam studying on a desk. Dean taking an overindulgent shower but keeping the door slightly ajar so he could take his time in the bath and be sure his kid brother was behaving at the same time.

Sam managed to finish up a chapter of his book, even with the intermittent, repetitive conversation. He grew up with Dean after all, and has apparently mastered the art of having his mind in two places at the same time.

He heard the shower and blowers die down, and his brother stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. Sam let his eyes rake through his brother's chest. No fresh scars or bruises, no more sights like those that made his heart beat a little faster, the last time Dean had visited months ago. He lost weight though. While he always tended toward lean, Sam had never thought of his brother as thin before.

"Sammy," Dean teased, putting a hand to his chest, "You little perv."

"You lost weight," Sam commented, ignoring the jibe, "I'm surprised. The way you were going at the food the last time we saw each other, I halfway expected you to be as big as the trunk of the car by now."

"A long time ago, that," Dean said, wistfully, occupying himself with packing his wet clothes in a plastic bag Sam had provided. Dean being the slob that he was, Sam knew it was more out of avoidance and distraction than out of an honest desire to be neat or considerate.

"Not _that_ long," Sam muttered, guiltily.

Dean's head shot up to him, and something flared in his eyes for a second as he considered contradicting Sam, making Sam wince, and look away in discomfort. Dean smothered the fire with a rakish grin.

"Guess time just flies by in California," Dean said, "'Cos people here are airheads."

Sam's lip quirked in appreciation.

"'Course," Dean snickered, "Who am I to diss the air here? I'm from fricking Kansas. Our tornadoes blew Dorothy away to the land of the Munchkins, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam said, eyes crinkling. His ever busy fingers began toying with the edges of the thick book he had to read through. _Tonight_. He took a deep breath, and released it as a sigh. He was about to open his mouth, ask Dean if he needed anything else, when his brother took the reins from him.

"Say, when was that?"

"When was what?" Sam asked, though he knew exactly what Dean meant. When was the last time they saw each other. When was the last time they talked. _When_.

Dean just shrugged, veiled his eyes in that defensive way of his, allowed his question to be ignored. Sam glanced at the untouched cup of beer on his desk, thought, _Screw it to hell_, and grabbed at it and took a fortifying sip.

"So tell me about this job," he told his older brother, "The one you just finished."

"You really want me to?" Dean asked, a little bit more pointed than either of them expected, because they both kind of just looked at each other, surprised.

"Why wouldn't I want you to?" Sam asked, quietly, evasively.

"'Cos you never want me to," Dean said, in a quick ramble, apparently in a bid to get rid of it before he changed his mind, "'Cos you hate it. But it's all I ever do, so it's all you can talk to me about, and you don't think I'll understand all the Stanford stuff. That's why we don't talk. 'Cos there's nothing else to talk about but the thing you hate."

"There's plenty other stuff to talk about," Sam said plaintively, and unconvincingly. Dean was being more than fair. It was true. He hated talking about hunting. He hated seeing his brother's bruises and scars, tracks that mapped his dangerous life without Sam. If he could bring Dean to Stanford with him, he would. Stash him in his book bag. Keep him in the dorm. Just... have him around. _Safe_.

The further he was away from his former life, the more he realized he was pissed as hell at Dean. Not for choosing to hunt and help people, no, it was hard to hate a noble guy. Not even for choosing to stick with their dad, because that was precisely the thing that Sam loved about his brother anyway, his devotion to his family. He realized he was pissed as hell at Dean for not wanting the same things that he did. And he was pissed as hell at Dean because it made him feel like an asshole, to want to be safe, to want to have a normal life.

And so the phone calls stopped. And then the answering of them. Never one to give up, his brother visited him. And now here he was again, and Sam was just relieved he didn't have to lie about being too busy.

_Not_ that he didn't care about Dean. Far from. He was just in that impossible position where he knew he had to do his own thing and at the same time, regret that his decisions left him in a spot where he could not look after the people he loved.

"Yeah," Dean said with a wince, "Sure."

Sam pressed his lips together. "I don't... I don't hate it, really."

_I don't hate you_...

"I just..." Sam stammered, "I worry about you, all right? Sometimes it's just better not to know anything, you know? Alive is enough, 'cos if I think of the other things, I just... I go crazy, you know? I thought I was going to lose it, my first few months here, knowing you were out there doing god knows what and me, not being able to do anything about it."

Dean scratched the back of his neck in discomfort. "What a bitch, huh?"

"What?"

Dean licked his lips, thoughtfully. "I can't drag you back with me. Which works out 'cos I don't think I really want to. I mean I do, but I want you to be here more, doing... whatever it is you're doing. You on the other hand, you can't keep me here. Which works out too 'cos I don't think you really want to; you gotta do your own thing and you want me to do mine, I get that. So we both can't do what we don't want to do. It's all supposed to work out, right?"

_Except it doesn't._

_'Cos why the fuck are we so unhappy?_

Sam smiled a little. "Think we can just blame this one on dad?"

"Nah," Dean said, sharing the dark humor, "I think we got into this one ourselves." He chewed at the inside of his cheeks, thoughtfully, as he raised up the shirt Sam was lending him, which was laid out neatly on the bed. He blanched. "What the hell is this?"

"What?" Sam asked, offended. No matter what he had said to Dean, he couldn't stand to give his older brother ratty old clothes. He had picked one of his nicest ones, a structured white polo with subtle artsy white-on-white stitches on the arms.

"It's a fricking Euro-shirt, is what," Dean commented distastefully, "Dude, since when--"

"Beggars can't be choosers, Dean," Sam sighed, feeling irritated enough to begin to turn back to his books.

"Where you been shopping, dude​?" Dean asked, shaking his head in amazed dismay.

"You know what, never mind," Sam said, snatching the polo from his brother's hands and tossing him the weathered t-shirt he had used to sleep in last night. _Yeah, live with that_.

"This is way better," Dean said with a wide, approving smile, not minding that Sam had picked up the wrinkled shirt from a heap on a chair, as he raised it up and looked at the standard old graphic tee.

"You are irrepressible," Sam sighed, watching as Dean slid into the shirt. The damp boxers he had to bear, of course, but he did borrow sweats from Sam. The clothes were a size too large. Sam couldn't stay annoyed at the sight of him, floating a little bit in the clothes, like he used to look like when they were younger, trying on their dad's gear.

_I look as cool as dad, Sammy..._

"I can't go out like this," Dean said, making a face and looking down at his clothes.

"No," Sam chuckled, "You can't."

"You laughing at me, Joe College?" Dean asked, raising a brow at him, "You don't think I can pick up a chick in your stupid duds?"

"I don't doubt you can pick up a girl even if you were wearing a _dress_, dude," Sam said, not rising up to the challenge, raising his hands in surrender, "But do you really want to?"

"Looking like this?" Dean snapped, "Hell no."

Sam shook his head as he laughed, "There's a laundry room at the end of the hall, if you wanna toss your clothes in."

Dean glanced at Sam's books, partially neglected on the desk by his arm, as if weighing whether or not he should be staying around. It made Sam blink and pause too. It was never easy, getting back in the groove with his brother, but it was always fast and it was always damned deep. The ease had crept back into him, somehow, the way it always did, lifting the weight, lifting the months apart away. But from past experience, Sam also knew that the crash was coming soon. It wasn't the first time he and Dean danced around each other awkwardly, then fricking tangoed like they were never apart, and then just stopped dead.

He remembered the last time Dean visited, the pattern had been the same. He had fallen into his brother's easy charms. And then made the mistake of paying attention to Dean's battered body, as he had just come from a rough hunt. And then the black thoughts splayed about in his head again, making him irritable or worse, than one thing Dean couldn't stand, Sam had been dismissive.

_He could have died_.

_He's an idiot walking wounded._

_This could be the last time he and I get to talk._

_Anytime we talk could be the last time.._.

"I think I will," Dean said, softly, and turned on his heel a hair's breath before Sam could open his mouth to change his mind.

" " "

_I wonder how long I can keep my clothes in, _Dean thought, rubbing his chin as he stood in front of the dryer_, and still fit in 'em when the damn things get out_.

He wasn't surprised, that Sam had softened to him again. It was just the way that they were, he supposed. Brothers through and through. For all the good and bad of it. And he was scared enough about tomorrow to admit he missed the Sasquatch. He went all this way, damn it. Just...not aloud. At least, he hoped he could keep his mouth shut. 'Cos he starts saying _I missed ya Sammy_ and his kid brother would surely know something was going on--

"Um, you press that button there..." some random kid managed to sneak up to him. Nerdy-like, a prissier version of his intellectual brother. Thin, jittery and uneasy, especially since it seemed that at this point, he didn't think that Dean was very smart, staring at the machine like that.

_I was distracted_, Dean thought crossly, _No need to be such a snob about it. Nerds are so overrated. They're intellectual bullies, throwing their weight around. _I _start throwing _my_ weight around and pounding on you and we'll see who wins. Idiot._

"Thanks," Dean said, smiling at him sourly, putting the heat down to the lowest notch, and then taking the timer up to a half hour. That should be a good extra half hour with Sammy.

"Your clothes will shrink a little--"

"I like 'em tight and warm and yummy and it's none of your business," Dean snapped, adding in a low mutter, "Smartass."

He strode back to Sammy's room, to find his brother stooped over these insanely thick books. They looked like dad's journal, battered and well-used and ridiculously post-it-ed. He could see Sam's chickenscratch on notes strewn all over the place. And because he was who he was, he also caught sight of a bag of Cheetos and a can of soda that Sam made ready for him.

"What's this, college dinner?" he asked his brother with a delighted smirk. Until he remembered he wasn't really supposed to be having anything. He couldn't help the pout that kind of just sprung from his mouth.

"You don't like it?" Sam asked, surprised, "I thought you'd be thrilled. Breakfast of champions and dinner of kings and all that."

"Nah, I already ate," Dean said, sitting on the edge of his brother's bed, "Thanks though."

"When did that ever stop you?" Sam asked, his eyes alight with memory and teasing. He turned back to his book, reading on quietly as Dean watched him.

Sam had that uncanny ability to continue operating normally even under scrutiny. He was used to it, Dean supposed, doing everything under the watch of his brother or his father. It was never something Dean could handle, being watched the way Sam had learned to live with.

"So how's dad?" Sam asked, faux-casually, although Dean saw his cheek twitch, just a little.

"Same old," Dean replied with a shrug.

"He went off on his own, huh?" Sam asked, taking on an edge in his voice again, "You guys do that a lot?"

Dean could only see his brother's profile, but he knew something made him mad, for some reason. "Once in awhile," he murmured, distractedly, "I could swear you're pissed right now."

"He's not supposed to be leaving you alone," Sam said, trying to keep his voice level and mostly failing, "What the hell is he thinking."

"Chill out, drama queen," Dean said with a half-laugh, trying to calm his brother, trying to get back to the nice, calm spot they were just stumbling into, "I'm ancient, and the Winchesters are in demand, huh? We gotta spread out once in awhile. Not a lot, mind, so relax."

"The last time we saw each other," Sam said, his voice low and his head hanging as he refused to look up at Dean. He flipped a page of his book, and though agitated as he was by the conversation, Dean would still have bet his left eye his brother had managed to retain what was written there, "You getting hurt like that. He hadn't been with you, right?"

"It wasn't his fault, Sam."

"He was supposed to be with you," Sam insisted, "He's not supposed to be leaving you alone. When I left--" Sam set his jaws, looking annoyed at himself that this was coming up. "I thought you'd be covered," he finished, quietly, "I wouldn't have--" he killed the thought right there.

_You wouldn't have left if you'd known_? Dean filled in, _Is that it?_

_It's not your fault either, bro_.

Dean glanced at the Cheetos. _Man_ was he jonesing for one right about now...

He stretched out on Sam's bed, away from the sight of the food and the sight of Sam, two of his favorite things in the world. He yawned.

"You look wiped, Dean," Sam said, neutrally, walls back up, "Power nap, or something. I'll wake you when your clothes are ready. You shouldn't be hitting the road feeling like crap."

"I'm fine," Dean muttered, staring up at the ceiling. He was annoyed with himself. He was sleepy. He can't remember the last time he felt sleepy. He felt beat, tired, ill, hurt, et cetera. The best rest he gets is when he's unconscious. He hasn't slept well in so long. And now that Sam's here that's when he gets hit? Unfair. It made sense that he should feel most at ease with his brother there, of course, but logic did not often equate to fairness, and this. was. simply. annoying.

"Well maybe for a little bit," he reconsidered, murmuring, as he closed his eyes.

" " "

Dean woke up with a start and the sun was rising and he was pissed as hell at Sam for not waking him except... except he turned his head to find his brother's sleeping face, right next to his and suddenly, it was like they were kids again.

His eyes warmed, and his face broke into the widest smile he's had in a long time. He knew, because it felt so damn alien that he had to touch his cheek, make sure his jaws don't come off.

The Winchester brothers laid down shoulder to shoulder on the bed, even as their feet were planted on the floor. Sam was hugging a heavy book to his chest. Dean has seen this exact picture many times before. That chest has been a home to history books, geometry books, comic books, their father's research... basically anything that Sam found interesting or necessary enough to burn the midnight oil over and fall asleep thinking about.

Dean watched him for a long, long moment. He had to leave, he knew that. But he also knew that this is exactly what he came here for. Some assurance that they were both still who they were, and that Stanford and lonely hunts and an overbearing father couldn't change that. I mean sure, they spat at each other. What pair of brothers or good friends didn't? But Sam was still Sammy, and Dean knew he still had a spot in his brother's life, even if that spot wasn't talking on the phone or seeing each other a lot. Even if that spot was just the thought of Cheetos-ing for dinner or sleeping with a book on your chest. There was still something about his brother that was inexplicably _his_.

_We don't need fixing,_ Dean knew, _We'll _never_ need fixing no matter what. We just need a little bit of time to remember that, once in awhile_.

He smiled to himself as he got up. Few people could move around a sleeping Winchester without waking him, but of course the three of them had all learned how to do that with each other. Sam didn't even stir, a testament to both Dean's skills and, he hoped, Sam's subconscious trust in him.

He rubbed at the print on Sam's shirt against his chest. _Man_, he was tempted to run away with it. And for the record, he found that white polo nice too except he didn't feel he should have anything so nice when he was just lounging around. Sam deserved the very best. And they had so little, he couldn't bear to take even this ratty shirt away with him.

He sighed, as he walked to the laundry room to collect his things. The dorm sounded empty, it was still fairly early in the day and everyone was probably still asleep. He stripped right then and there and put his own clothes on. Frowning in thought, he tossed in the wash the clothes he had borrowed from Sam. They shouldn't take too long to wash and dry. That doctor's having him all day today and god knows how long after that, so Dean decided the guy can probably wait just a little bit.

" " "

Sam jolted awake at the sound of his alarm. He groaned and stretched, and found that he had the room to. Dean was gone and from the look of things, he's been gone awhile. Sam sighed heavily, wanting to just stay in bed but knowing he had to get ready for his test, which was by now only an hour away.

He didn't expect to fall asleep so long or so deep, really. He just wanted to shut his eyes for a little bit. Besides, he hasn't slept well in so long, how could he expect last night to be any different? But then Dean was there and then suddenly, well... his belligerent brother had an ironically calming effect.

He sat up, found the clothes Dean had borrowed on top of his desk. They smelled freshly washed, and he had left a note on top.

'_I usually wake up with a hot chick wearing my clothes. Now I feel like your bitch and it's pissing the hell outta me. I'm out. Knock 'em dead, dude.'_

Sam just shook his head and laughed quietly to himself.

To Be Continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Author:Mirrordance

Title: One Night

Summary:He was going under the knife tomorrow. He wasn't sure if he was going to wake up. It was perfectly excusable to torment his estranged brother at Stanford for one night, wasn't it? Set Pre-Pilot, that last time Dean bothered Sam before Episode 1.

**Note**: Thanks to all who read and even more to all who reviewed. I was gonna post specialized replies but I thought you might like it more if I posted Chapter 2 right away instead, haha... Reviews are fuel. When I posted Chapter 1, I wasn't even halfway through Chapter 2 and well now here it is, and the fic (which will have 3 chapters) is almost done. I've never receved this much responses from this fandom so it's very very rewarding. C&C's are always welcome if you can spare them. Have fun and 'til the next post!

" " "

2

California

" " "

He scratched his neck irritably, once.

Twice.

He shifted uneasily on the squeaky bed. The springs were supposed to be subtle, he knew, but it was just so quiet that the sound amplified and annoyed him in that small, white room.

He scratched his neck a third time.

He was at that odd cusp between boredom and blinding fear. That was what stupid, empty rooms like this was for, he guessed, these little holes that were used to prepare people for surgery.

_Would it kill 'em to give him a TV?_

He shifted, and grunted, and frowned. And then scratched his neck again. He did the same things over once more, and then changed the order, and then tried another permutation, and then another. He made a sour face. And then yawned. And then tore at the neck of the hospital gown he had on.

_I'm fricking half-_naked_, on top of it all..._

He wished he was in a whole lot of other places but here, though admittedly, there were much, _much_ worse ones to be in...

He could be back in a house fire in Lawrence for one. He had been at a cave-in at a Wisconsin mine too. He was stuck in there for two days and he never ever thought he'd see daylight again. There was that ridiculous corn maze in Tennessee with a fricking scarecrow breathing down his neck as he turned and twisted and got lost in a game of hide-and-seek / cat-and-mouse for two damn hours, until he finally killed the thing and got lost for two more. It was decidedly _not_ fun. There too, was that night he spent with this waitress in Florida. _Coyote-ugly_ without her cute outfit and makeup after all, and when he woke up next to her the only consolation he could come up with was that if he was zonked enough to come onto her last night, then someone must have slipped him something _super awesome_ even if he remembered nothing about it and the morning sucked.

There too was the night Sam left for college... Dad storming out of their motel room, slamming the door behind him and expecting Sam to be gone by the time he got back. Dean remembered the smell of the lonely, forgotten dinner on the table. There were clothes scattered on every available surface of the place and Sam just snatched them up and shoved them in his duffel. Dean watched his younger brother's face, had never seen it closed off like this, like he'd never change his mind, like he was going away and he was never going back. Never even _looking_ back. He wouldn't even look at Dean.

Dean watched Sam's long, elegant fingers as he sorted out his clothes from Dean's and their father's. Would raise up some of the very, very few ratty shirts the two brothers shared, as if in consideration.

_Should I bring this? Should I leave it with Dean...?_

Sam never even bothered with asking his brother, he would just look at the shirt, pause, and then leave it. Dean watched as he left _everything_ that was their shared property.

"You can take that one," Dean said, quietly, of the _Astroboy_ vintage graphic tee that he knew Sam loved, when Sam raised it up thoughtfully.

Sam set his jaws, but nodded. He shoved the shirt in his bag, but let his fingers linger a little, before he returned to his task.

Dean watched him carefully, wanting to make sure he didn't forget anything. His brother was leaving. He knew this beyond any doubt, and he knew there was no stopping him. The most he could do was to make sure he was prepared. Because _damn_ he was shit-scared of sending his brother out in the world out there.

_I wish I never encouraged you_, he thought, _I wish you weren't so smart. I wish I didn't think you deserve to have this, a good, decent shot at life. Mostly... it just comes down to I wish you didn't have to leave._

_I wish you didn't _want_ to leave._

Sam closed the zipper with a flourish. He did not at all look at Dean throughout the process of packing. Dean wondered if Sam was mad at him by association. Sam slung the bag over his shoulder.

"I'm not--" he hesitated, "I'm not making a mistake, am I?"

Sam's eyes were wounded and earnest when they finally, _finally_ settled on his older brother's face. And then Dean understood why Sam has been avoiding looking at him.

_Tell me_, Sam seemed to be saying, _Tell me I'm wrong and I'll stay. _Ask _me to, and I'll stay_.

Because Dean was the only thing that could keep him here. The realization was crippling, and Dean was suddenly assaulted by a sense of relief. He could _keep_ Sam. He _could_!

But Dean couldn't lie, not when it came to things that he knew were good for his brother. He wished he could, but a wish was all that it was.

"You'll be great out there, bro," he said, quietly, licking his lips and looking away, not wanting to look at Sam anymore, because looking at him made Dean want to lie and keep him, the same way Sam didn't want to look at him because looking at Dean made him want to stay.

That night, he drove Sam over to the bus station that would take him to California. He gave him several hundred dollars (he forgot how much now) of hustling money he had saved over the last few months. He gave him every coin he could find in the Impala, everything he could find from under the carpet, in between the seats, just _cleaned_ himself out. Gave him the few real jewelry he had for some pawning action. Was going to resort to the silver bullets except Sam had drawn the line there. Sam was too financially scrapped to say no, to both their reliefs. Dean reminded his brother of his allergies as he searched his car, insisted he bring a small knife (which Sam agreed to) and a shotgun (which Sam sob-laughingly declined)...

And that was that.

_Things could be infinitely worse_, Dean conceded, looking up at the ceiling of his hospital room, _I could be back there then, losing Sam. _

Conversely, _things would be just as bad if Sam could be here now, losing me._

_This is good_, he decided, _This is not so bad._

But you know your life's been fairly shitty if being alone as you waited for surgery is considered any form of consolation.

"Mr. Hernandez?" a pretty nurse came by his door, smiling shyly. Her tag showed her name was Lisa. It was a nice, solid, reliable name. He's liked lots of Lisa's before.

"Yep?" he asked, "Are the chefs ready to dice me?"

"Just about," she replied, walking toward him with a clipboard and several sheets of paper, "We were reviewing your forms, and noted that you did not list any family contact, or any possible medical proxy, in case..."

"In case I kick the bucket?" Dean asked, wryly, "Yeah well, my insurance checks out, right, and I left the number of the account agent of the company to handle other details--"

"It's not a question of billing, sir," she said, earnestly, "If things do not go as we expect them to, is there anyone we can... notify? Or someone who can make decisions for you? An emergency contact."

Dean frowned. "I don't think I'd need one, I mean, this operation's pretty normal, I was told."

"It's done on a normal basis, yes," she insisted, "But it's a very, very serious one. You're in the best hands possible but there can always be a complication. And generally, it is advisable for patients not to be alone. The healing process will be a long one. You'll be discharged still experiencing a lot of discomfort--"

"I think I can hack it," he said, dryly, "I just wanna get this over with nice and quiet."

She frowned at him in disapproval. Smart, pretty Lisas usually get what they want, especially out of Dean.

"We won't call them unless things go south," she assured him, "We respect your right to your privacy, we are oath-bound to. We won't call them if you're fine. That means if we do call them, you'd be too far gone to care. So what would it hurt?"

He sighed, frowned, and took the proffered clipboard. He scrawled in some invented name and a random number, and handed the stupid thing back to her.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" she asked him, pleasantly, except her eyes were clouded, "Just speaking from personal experience, though... no matter how sucky your relationship is with your family, it's always better to have someone here with you."

He looked at her earnest face. Wondered if he could get her to play nurse with him (the fun kind, not like now) when this is all over and he was feeling much better...

"And it's not just about that," she added, "If something happens to you... the people who care about you have a right to know, don't they? They deserve to know and not just... wonder."

He blinked at her. Once. Twice.

"Damn it," he growled, opening his hand out to her, motioning for the clipboard, "Give me back that thing, will ya, sweetheart?"

She smiled at him triumphantly.

He wrote down Sam's phone number.

" " "

One Week Later

" " "

"On top of the world as always, Mister Winchester," his professor grinned at him as he handed him his marks. Sam didn't bother to hold back his own smile. He had known from the very moment the test ended a week ago that he had done well. It was just one of those things.

He stepped out of the hall still proudly wearing his goofy grin. Classmates whizzed by, saying hello, patting his back, giving him his due for a job well done. The sun was up, and there was a low, cool breeze in the air. It was a good day. _Heck_, it's been a great week, if he was being accurate.

An inexplicable weight has been lifted from his shoulders, after Dean had visited. He couldn't understand it (he never has), but just appreciated it and attributed it to their being brothers. All he knew was that he slept, he woke, and everything was going right.

A familiar sight crossed the corner of his vision. Crimped blond hair, nice legs, brilliant eyes... gorgeous, smart, funny--

He jogged toward her before he overwhelmed himself with superlatives, before he psyched himself out of asking her out, the way he always did.

"Jessica?" he called, catching up to her. She was with friends, which would make this even worse, but he figured things were going his way lately and he really might as well take the biggest gamble of them all.

He stood there, hemorrhaging nerve. His momentum was slowing down and for a long, blank moment, all he could think about was that he hoped the earth would open up and swallow him.

Her lips quirked, knowingly. "Yes."

His brows must have shot to the sky. "What?"

"You're asking me out, aren't you?" she pointed out.

His cheeks were going to spontaneously combust. If it was Dean here instead of him, Dean would probably say, _Well now that you asked me out in front of your friends, I'd hate to embarrass you, sweetheart._ Or he'd say_, Yes, huh? I wasn't thinking date, I was thinking rollin' around in the hay--_

"Seven tonight?" he asked, looking down because he was embarrassed as hell, but then glancing up at her earnestly.

"You got it, Sam Winchester," she said, smiling, "I'll see you then."

He was tempted to pump a fist up the air in sheer victory. He just smiled back at her instead, and nodded at her snickering friends. He took deep breaths, trying to contain himself.

_Oh screw that_, he thought, pumping up his fist anyway, and then laughing at himself for looking ridiculous.

His phone rang, and he answered it cheerfully without checking who was calling. He didn't care. He was on top of the world.

"Yeah?" he asked, his voice still laughing.

"Mister Hernandez?"

He never lost the Winchester habit of literally just _accepting_ calls. He's never used this alias before, but what the heck. He was having a good day, he might as well do a good deed. He might be able to refer the caller to Dean or his dad.

"That's me," he said cheerfully. _Man_, he had to get rid of this funk, he really did. If this guy was calling about a job, Sam should probably sound a bit more serious or sympathetic...

"You're Rodrigo's emergency contact and I'm sorry to say but there were some complications," the man said.

"Did you mean to call this number?" Sam asked, his blood turning cold, already thinking _Damn it, Dean_, as he read through his cellular number.

"Yes, he's your brother, isn't he?"

And then he just _knew_.

_Damn it Dean!_

"Is he alive?" came the low, breathless question. He felt gutted. He felt as if the Earth was removed from beneath his feet. Yeah, this sounded just like his relationship with his brother the last few years. Spectacular high and then _the_ crash, when the reminders of What was he just thinking about a week ago? How easy it was to fall into Dean's charms and assurances, again only to have it all crash down over his head?

_Forget crash_, he thought, angrily, as he paced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth_, it's a fucking avalanche. The _sky_ is falling_.

_Please, please, please God..._, Sam thought desperately, _Let him be alive..._

_...Everything else I can live with, I swear._

" " "

He ran to the reception desk, racking his brain for Dean's alias, but all he could remember was that it was ridiculously inappropriate and couldn't remember anything else. For some reason, though, the woman at the desk knew who he was right away. It scared the hell out of him, the thought that things must have really, really gone bad if all the nurses knew they had to look out for him and bring him to Dean immediately. He could not have kept the fear from his face.

"It's not that there's a red alert out on you or anything like that, darling," the middle-aged, heavy-set woman was telling him. She wasn't moving very fast, leading him forward, and he was tempted as hell to just pick her up and start running, "He kept saying you were incredibly tall..."

"Is he awake?" Sam asked, a lick of relief just-barely making itself known in his pounding heart.

"Kind of," she said, and he felt as if it would have been more bearable if she kicked him in the face. She led him to a young doctor, who had a crop of roan-red hair standing on all sorts of ends, looking as if he was on the harassed end of a harsh shift. His face was deceptively calm, though, eyes clear beneath slim, silver glasses. He looked exactly like the type of doctor whom Dean could warm up to (_could_ being the operative word, as Sam had never seen such a supernatural phenomenon before) - unconventional, confident, straightforward.

"Doctor Mathis," the nurse said, "This is Santino Hernandez."

_Who_?!

"Mr. Hernandez," Mathis shook Sam's numb hand, "I'm handling your brother's case. You are not as tall as advertised – your brother promised us a Sasquatch."

"Is he okay?" Sam asked, right for the guttural. Whatever he was saying was supposed to be funny and disarming, reassuring. Maybe later. But right now, Sam just needed life painted in black and white, before he died of a fricking Dean-stimulated, patented heart attack.

The nurse excused herself, and the doctor herded Sam to one of the empty rooms lining the hallways. Sam was going to protest, ask to see his brother right away. But sense told him to just listen to what was going on first.

"How much do you know about your brother's condition?"

"Nothing," Sam said, "No one's told me anything."

Knowing the job, though, Sam feared he was dealing with a concussion, massive blood loss, a stab wound, broken bones, internal injuries... God, the list of possibilities was endless--

"The tumor--"

"The _what_?!" Sam exclaimed, _The what?!_

"He didn't tell you," Mathis said, flatly, stating the painfully obvious, "I'm... I'm starting to not be surprised, from what I know of your brother."

"What are you talking about?" Sam said, breathlessly. The room was starting to do a quiet little spin. This wasn't an occupational hazard. Of all things he had to fear, he never thought he'd be fearing something like this. A fricking tumor. Could there be any supernatural implications? Or did Dean, again, just win the unlucky lotto?

"Where?" Sam asked, urgently, "Is it cancer?"

"He has what's known as Bronchial Adenoma," Mathis explained, "It's a pretty broad definition, boiling down to tumors found in and around the windpipe or bronchi. His case was referred to me by friends in Indiana, who said your brother came to them with an old and relatively mild chest injury. Your brother was wondering why he wasn't healing quickly enough."

Sam figured Dean must have jogged something during a hunt, waited out a few cracked or busted ribs, which sounded typical enough. Going to the doctor, though... that was something unheard of.

"What do you mean?" asked Sam.

"He was having trouble breathing," Mathis said, "Low grade fever, fairly symptomatic of the injury except he rightfully insisted that the bones have healed, and he was wondering why the rest of him didn't follow. Said it was keeping him from his job."

_He would say that_, Sam sighed, understanding that if there was anything that would get Dean marching to a clinic, it was that he had something else to do and wanted to get rid of an illness or an injury quickly. The motive was almost assuredly the job or, maybe, if he was meeting up with their father, the motivation would have been Dean's desire to keep his injury a secret.

"The doctor ordered an x-ray," Mathis continued, "Practically had to tie him down to do it but your brother finally relented. It was a good thing too, because the tumors just winked at them from the prints."

"There's more than one?" Sam asked, feeling so damn small, right now.

Mathis nodded, "We removed the smaller ones with non-invasive surgery, but there was a large one, in a tricky position. It was the one causing the symptoms – the breathlessness he had complained about, the coughing up blood that he didn't. We had to open him up for that one. None of them are cancerous, we found that out right away, but keeping them around would have eventually killed him. The position was starting to disrupt the basic functions already."

"So they're out," Sam said in an exhale, "All of them right? And non-cancerous."

"That's correct," Mathis replied, "The smaller ones they took care of in Indiana. The large one we removed last week."

"Last week?" Sam said, feeling a kick in the gut.

"Exactly to the day," Mathis said, "He checked himself in the morning, and we had the procedure done in the afternoon."

Sam turned his face away from the doctor, pressed at the bridge of his nose, thinking back to his brother, standing with injured eyes and that rakish grin at his apartment door.

_"Sorry I uh... I guess I shoulda called first, checked if you were busy..."_

_I'm gonna kill him_.

_"Hit the books, dude, I'm not crying myself to sleep about this or anything. I'll see you soon."_

_I'm really gonna flat out kill him_.

"He'll be fine," Mathis told him, gently, noting his apparent despair.

"I know," Sam said, "It's just... I saw him, the night before. He didn't say a thing. Not a damn thing. Why call me now, though?"

"It's always dangerous messing around with the lungs," Mathis said, "Especially for this kind of surgery. There were risks he knew about, and risks we were prepared for. He bled out a lot. His heart stopped."

And Sam's, perforce, just now, did so also.

"We got him back," Mathis added quickly, "Post-op, he caught pneumonia and has been fighting it since. The fever's finally broken, but he was very disoriented, delirious." He opened a palm out to Sam, "Hence the infamy of the Sasquatch, amongst a litany of other terms I can't pretend to begin to understand."

"God," Sam muttered, clenching his eyes shut, and then opening them and turning to face the doctor again. Tumor, surgery, heart stopping and pneumonia. What the hell was next?

"We were informed that we were not to call you unless there were severe circumstances," Mathis said, "And when he started talking about monsters and muttering weird chants, the people here started thinking brain damage from when he was clinically dead."

Sam rubbed his face, stared at the doctor wearily, "Monsters and chants."

"We figured family would be best judges at this point," Mathis said, "Does that sound like your brother?"

_You have no idea_.

"Let me see him," Sam said, softly.

" " "

"_I'm scared, Dean_."

Sam's voice pierced through his subconscious, where previously he had been busy doing... something else, he couldn't remember. When Sam came into the world, it felt as if he had come alive also.

"_I don't believe you, Sammy_," he had said. He forgot when. He just remembered they were sitting in the dark and there was something out there wanting to take a bite out of them; he was unsure if it was real or a child's imagining. But he was sure he had been lying. Of course he believed that Sam was scared. Kid had these brilliant, expressive, honest eyes. But Dean needed him to believe something else, so the lie stuck. He always felt that honesty was the most overrated virtue anyway.

Sam had looked at him incredulously, as if saying, _You can't possibly be serious_.

_"Why would I lie?" Sam asked him._

_"Your eyes go any larger, bro," he said with a half-laugh, "And I swear they're popping out of your head, and I'm gonna get stuck putting you back together."_

_Sam wasn't amused. He started shaking his legs anxiously. "Dean..."_

_"Listen," Dean told him, "Sammy. You're not scared, all right? I know you. You're not scared of anything."_

_Sam bit his lip, nodded jerkily, "Okay."_

Sam had calmed down then, and then it seemed as if the two of them lived on like that. Sam was relentless, unstoppable. Fearless. Acing school, going after smart and gorgeous chicks, going on hunts, doing research, standing up to their dad. He tore the world down, and Dean thought that maybe it hadn't been a lie after all. Or Sam had lived to make Dean's lies true. And all Dean had to do was watch on, and watch his brother's back. He never heard _I'm scared_ again.

_Wanna know about fear, bro_, Dean thought, miserably, _You gotta start asking me_.

It was annoyingly ironic, how he felt as if he had so much more to fear than Sam, even if, looking back now, he had been a big part of killing it for his brother. He spoke of it less if at all, sure. But it was there, it always was, underlying his life.

Fear was staring at fires and thinking it took your mother, it's gonna take your father and your brother and you too.

Fear was watching Sam step into a bus and staying back.

Fear was his father leaving him every now and then, and him wondering if this time was the last time.

Most recently, fear was coughing up blood in a dim bathroom in the middle of nowhere, thinking _This is it, this is how I'm kicking it_, and _No one's ever gonna know_. I'm just gonna be some dead guy with eight fake credit cards in a ratty motel. Fear was surviving that rough night and living through traces of the disease in the days that followed, taking jobs from his father's impersonal messages and wondering if he was going to get somebody else killed because he wasn't good enough. Fear was his father asking to meet him and him trying to find a decent lie to avoid it until he could figure out what was wrong with his body.

Fear was a doctor telling him they needed to slice him open.

Fear was him trying to get in touch with his dad, out on the hunt in an un-reachable mountain somewhere by friends' accounts, in a bid to settle affairs in case things didn't turn out all right. Fear was writing his dad a ridiculous goodbye letter, and being scared shit-less now that he can't remember where he put it and someone might find it. _Ewww_...

Fear was visiting Sam, wondering if he would be welcome. Fear was him thinking he was mucking up what was potentially the last time he would see his brother.

Fear was him wondering what would happen to his father and his brother after he was gone. And then the one selfish thing he indulged himself in: fear was wondering if they would remember nice things about him, what they think they lost.

_I'm scared, Dean_.

He heard it again, as astutely haunting as the first time except, he was beginning to realize that though the tone was the same, the voice was different. Older. And... and nearer, because it wasn't a memory anymore.

" " "

"Dean," Sam called, softly, for the nth time, "Dude. You waking up?"

He sat on a chair by Dean's bed, competing for elbow room with IV's and machinery. His brother was sleeping so uncharacteristically still that in unnerved him. He gripped Dean's forearm, felt its warm alive-ness and was grateful for the sheer simplicity of having it rest underneath his palm.

His first day at the hospital had stretched to two, and still Dean slept on and Sam bit his nails and sweated the wait. He needed his brother awake. He needed his brother talking and bitching. He needed his brother to rag at him about the nail-biting thing. He needed his brother to tell him how to soften up a royally pissed-off, stood-up blond without breaking out the brother-in-the-hospital card. He just. needed. Dean.

"Dude, come on, no one sleeps like this," Sam said with a soft chuckle. But it was a lie. The doctor said not to expect Dean to come around fully for a few more days, although stranger things have happened. His brother always was a fighter, and already his fever has fled, his skin began to get more color, his breathing had eased.

_"See what one night can do?" this nurse, a nosy Lisa had said, "It's always better to have someone around who cares about you, I told him..."_

"Wake up," Sam said, giving his brother's arm a tighter grip. Everyone said he was going to be fine, but not 'til those hazel eyes opened and said so would Sam believe. Dean always knew how to mold his world.

"I'm scared, Dean.

"Wake up."

" " "

Sam was desperate enough to consider calling up their father, which would be the first time since they bellowed at each other things that couldn't ever be taken back, and they stormed away from each other's sphere, as if the world wasn't big enough to contain them.

He picked up his phone, fiddled with the keys a little bit. Dean's hospital room was so quiet. The machines were beating and whirring, and the television was on CNN, but the room was deathly silent to Sam until he could hear his brother talk.

He wished _I-have-a-tu-mor_ was in Dean's extensive mouthy repertoire of words, but this was apparently five more syllables in a litany of words Dean would never care to utter, right up there with _I'm sick, I miss you _and _I need your help_. If Dean had told him... well, things would be slightly better, he thought. At least he would have a better understanding of what was going on. Be more prepared, in terms of acquiring an understanding of his brother's condition, of course, but also about other things, like what to do about their father.

Sam was pretty sure John Winchester didn't know about any of this. He begrudgingly had to admit that though his father tended to be a bastard, if Dean had told him anything, their dad would probably be here right now if he could. And so Sam didn't call him, out of respect for Dean's privacy. Didn't know what to say anyway. Might as well wait for Dean to wake up and mop that shitty situation up, like he always did.

If he had known about Dean's illness sooner, this... this pit in his stomach would also be easier to bear. The pit was made of guilt and regret.

Sam imagined his brother surrounded by these white-coated guys, telling him about the decisions he needed to make, the risks he had to face. He had lost weight, so Sam imagined his brother sinking into his seat, looking thin and pallid and bull-headed. Surly and antagonistic because deep inside he was still ten years old and embarrassed about the attention. Because the damn coats were treating him like he was refusing treatment because he didn't understand or know any better, and not because he was scared. Scared of what the hell to tell his father. Scared of being a bother to him. Scared of handling it alone, even as he already knew he had to. Scared of what would happen to him. Scared of what would happen to his family if he died.

Sam growled to himself, wishing he had been there from the get-go. If he had been there, he'd have known something was wrong right away. If he had been there, he'd have sat with Dean, facing up against the coats. He'd have found a better way to tell Dean he simply had to get this done, like, like, tell him it'll help him do his job better, or, or, mom would want you to. If he had been there, there would have been less to fear. He'd have bugged Dean to distraction, or mothered him so he wouldn't ever have to ask for the help that embarrassed him...

But he hadn't been there. He'd been in school, studying. And thinking about pretty blonds with sharp eyes and quirking mouths.

_But I'm here now_, Sam thought, _The more I see you, the more I think I should come back_... _You need someone with you, bro._

_Maybe I should_.

" " "

Sam went from school to hospital and back, making quick trips to his dorm for showers and clothing and nothing else. He pushed back homework and reading assignments in favor of reading over research on his brother's condition.

He played with the idea of leaving school for a little while all throughout the day, not at all paying attention to class.

That could work. Dean was strong, the doctors said, but the surgery had cut him wide open, and he was going to be recovering for some time, especially since he had a heavy bleeding issue and the pneumonia.

_You owe me big time, bro_, he thought_, I lost a date with my dream girl. I'm fucking up classes. The least you can do is wake up_.

Dean would have to lie low for awhile, Sam decided, even as he thought, _Good luck with that_. Maybe if someone sat on him, someone like dad. Or... or someone like Sam. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He could take a leave, or something. Just 'til Dean gets back on his feet.

" " "

Dean slept through the entirety of day three also. On day four, Sam had decided to cut classes, having already decided to take a leave of absence anyway, and head straight for the hospital. He walked down the now-familiar hallways, and could hear his brother raising hell from three doors away. Voice hoarse an unused, scratchy and ill, but as irrepressible as always.

_At least he's finally awake_.

Sam started walking faster.

"You weren't supposed to call him, Lisa," he whined and coughed, "Damn it."

"Doesn't it take a lot of breath to be whining?" the nurse told him, teasing, "I thought you were still sick."

Dean wasn't going to get derailed. "I told you, no bothering him unless I was _dying_, for godssakes..."

His voice trailed off.

Realization hits.

"Oh," Sam heard him say in a low voice, only because he was already almost to the door.

"You were," the nurse told him with a sigh, "They were scared of brain damage. And I'm glad we did. I see him everyday, you know. He'll be taking care of you now, all right?"

"That's what I'm afraid of," Dean muttered.

" " "

He _felt_ him, before he actually saw him.

Dean knew to straighten up right away, and was more-or-less sitting up alert when Sam appeared by his door, looking chagrined.

"Hey Dean," he said with that small, uneasy smile, "You look better."

To be concluded...


	3. Chapter 3

Author:Mirrordance

Title: One Night

Summary:He was going under the knife tomorrow. He wasn't sure if he was going to wake up. It was perfectly excusable to torment his estranged brother at Stanford for one night, wasn't it? Set Pre-Pilot, that last time Dean bothered Sam before Episode 1.

" " "

**One Night**

" " "

3

California

" " "

"Hey Dean," he said with that small, uneasy smile, "You look better."

Dean winced at him. Sam, on the other hand, looked worse than when the last time they saw each other.

_I did that_...

The nurse excused herself. Neither brother noticed.

Sam settled down on the weathered, well-used seat next to his bed. When Dean woke up fully-alert for the first time in days a few hours back, the first thing he looked at was that empty chair. He stared at it for _hours_, knowing immediately who had pulled it near, knowing who had been sitting there. He flipped on the TV, and found it on the news channel. There was a thick book on his night table. There were ghosts of Sam everywhere.

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" Dean asked, gruffly.

A tell-tale pause. Sam opened his mouth to lie. Dean covered up his chance with a despairing groan.

"Sammy," he wailed, melodramatically, "You're not supposed to be doing stuff like that. What about your scholarship, dude? You're supposed to become a lawyer. We agreed already. What's gonna happen to our dreams, huh? I do the crime, you half the time..."

"Your nurse was right," Sam teased, "Doesn't whining use up a lot of air?"

_So you heard us_, Dean deduced, wincing again. _God_, this was precisely why he kept this shit to himself.

"I'm not sick anymore," Dean grumbled, "They took it away."

"They cracked your ribs and opened your chest," Sam scoffed, "Your heart stopped, Dean. They pulled a tumor from your lungs, you know, those little weird things that help you _breathe_."

"I'm not a fucking idiot, Sam--"

"Oh yeah?" his kid brother snapped, suddenly, and why the hell was it so easy to court that anger, "You not telling me or dad what's going on with you, what the hell was that, huh?"

"A work of pure genius," Dean replied, willing to cloud the air with bleak humor, "Until the magician's assistant pulled a dead bunny out of the hat. God, these people."

Sam looked at him angrily, and then it softened to just resigned weariness.

"Dean..." he was doing the puppy dog routine, the one that one hundred percent worked on Dean every time, "What would I have done, huh? What would I have done if that night..."

_If that night was the last night I talked to you_?

_And I spent it buried in a book and turning you away?_

"Well you don't have to think about that now," Dean pointed out, shifting, uncomfortable because the puppy dog eyes were as effective as ever, "Right? Everything's fine, I'm fine. Go to school, stop skipping classes, dude. Drop by only if you're free. I'm outta here in a few. I got it covered."

"How are we paying for all this anyway?" Sam asked.

"That's just the thing, dude," Dean smirked, "You mind toning down on the 'Dean' thing? I'm having a hard time explaining to the nurses how 'Dean' is short for Rodrigo."

"I still can't believe you're a Rodrigo Hernandez," Sam said, skeptically, because laughing about that was misplaced as hell and he was tempted like crazy to do it, "You should worry less about the nickname and more about how you look. You don't look like a Rodrigo Hernandez."

"I look _good_," Dean winked, "God, this guy is loaded. The insurance thing won't even dent him, I swear. And the best part is, Rodrigo has a _Santino_."

"Do I look like a Santino?" Sam asked, choking on a laugh he tried to smother.

"Maybe we can get you a mustache," Dean grinned.

One side of Sam's lip quirked up. "Would that help me pick up chicks?"

"But I thought you only liked other men."

"Ha," Sam said, falling into his brother again, rubbing a hand over his face, "There's this girl."

"Oh god, I gotta talk to you about the birds and the bees again?" Dean groaned, "That last time was a nightmare--"

"Shut up," Sam laughed, "Are you listening or what?"

"I am," Dean said, eyes glinting, "Go, go."

"I stood her up."

"Well you're a jerk," Dean said, pretending to be obtuse. Sam didn't mean to rub it in his face, he knew that, it was just an honest provision of information leading to a question. But Dean suddenly understood that there's only one reason Sam would stand up a girl who makes him smile like that. It was his pesky older brother and his thrice-damned tumor-ed lungs.

_Cutting classes and dumping dates_, Dean thought, grimly, _This is what happens to you when I'm around_.

"You really like this broad?"

"Um--"

"Okay so that's a yes," Dean rolled his eyes, "Then there's no trick, man. You just gotta ask her out again. And if she says no you ask again. And so on. It doesn't matter if you get pissed or impatient. You stand up a chick and she deserves all the no's she wants to give you."

Sam's brows rose. "Yeah?"

"If you didn't like her," Dean said with a grin, "I'd have tossed the brother-in-the-hospital card. You'd have had her eating off of your hand." He glanced at the door of his room, at the doctors and nurses passing by.

"So ah..." he hesitated, "How much did they tell you? How soon can I get out?"

"A few days," Sam said, vaguely waving his hands, "You nearly died, bro. Relax."

"You didn't call dad, did you?" Dean asked, brows furrowing in worry.

"Didn't think you'd want me to," Sam replied, "Where does he think you are right now?"

"Probably to the last job he sent me to," Dean replied, averting his eyes, "He's just been dropping me coordinates for jobs. I gave those to Bobby, with access to my voice mail, told him I was gonna be busy and if he could delegate those to someone else." He bit his lip, thoughtfully.

"Sam..." Dean said, "I'm sorry. About all this, I really am. I was taking care of it. Everything is- would've- been fine. I got dad off my back. I got the jobs covered. I got the insurance covered... I wouldnt've bothered you. It's just..."

Did he have to say this now? It didn't matter anymore, did it? He was supposed to be bold _the night before_ the operation just in case he didn't make it, not his first morning awake after he already had. But the night... the night before forced bravery because it feared sudden death. The day inspired it because it was a fresh start.

"I wasn't gonna bother you," Dean said, "But I had to see you before, just to make sure you were all right," _Without me_, "And I put your name in the emergency thingie because in case something happened to me, you and dad deserved more than just wondering, you know? That was all. I don't want you to be bogged down by this. I am sorry, bro. It's a hassle, I know, I hate putting you in this spot and you don't have to do anything for me--"

"Don't worry about it, Dean," Sam said breezily, "That big test I was telling you about meant the end of a period. I have all the time we need now."

Dean did a quick count of months and semestral shit in his head.

_You fucking liar_.

"Sam..." Dean growled, threateningly, making his kid brother cringe.

"I got it covered too," Sam retorted, "You need me, bro--"

"I don't need anybody--"

"_I_ need to be here," Sam said, with finality, "Nothing you can do about it, Dean. All right?"

_Wanna bet_?

"Sam," Dean said in a low voice, "Don't do this."

"Do what?"

"This," Dean snapped, waving his arms out frustratingly, "Put your life-stuff on hold, you know? I'm fine, I said."

"You're my brother," Sam told him, flatly, determinedly, matter-of-fact, "I'm gonna do whatever the hell I think is best for you, okay?" he shifted uneasily in his seat, "'Sides... the more I see you, Dean... the more I think I shouldn't have left. That I should just go back."

Dean watched his brother's face carefully. "The more you see me...?"

"This is a big job, dude," Sam said, "What we do... it's too big and we're too few. I understand that, now. One man missing from the fold and whomever's left is left to pay a little bit more. I want that guy to stop being you."

" " "

Sam anticipated the backlash of his decision easily.

Dean was not at all a hard one to read sometimes. Sam knew he wasn't at all happy about Sam leaving school to return to hunting, to return to _him_. And so Dean began his tireless campaign to change his brother's mind.

First, he liberally bashed Sam's decision to quit school. He rapped about it every moment he could bring it up. He rapped about it 'til his voice literally ran out. When the hoarse voice had melded into exhausted coughing, the doctors shut him up with an oxygen mask, but could do nothing about his hotly glaring eyes.

The next day, he shifted techniques, and started talking about how important Sam's education was, how much potential he had, how proud dad was of Sam, how proud _he_ was of Sam, how people would kill to be in his spot, how hard it would be to go back later, how hot the chicks there were... and, most painfully, Dean walked that line he almost never _ever _touched, he said he was sure it was what their mother would have wanted for Sam.

"Mom would want the family to be together," Sam told him quietly, after a long moment, "Mom would want you to feel better, and be safer. She would want me to help you."

But Dean was irrepressible. He sold the idea of school until, again, his voice ran out and his doctors shut him up again. The glare had softened to imploring eyes. On his pallid face, he only looked more ill and in-need. Sam was sure he was doing the right thing.

On day three, Dean changed tactics yet again. In an effort to force Sam to return to school, he had barred his brother from visiting him. _Literally_ had him barred from visiting, like, black-and-white on paper.

_Clever_, Sam conceded after he got over the profound irritation, but he too, could play that game. He talked to Dean's doctors and the nurses on shift, spoke with the hospital's legal team, and ten minutes into being informed that he wasn't allowed near Dean, he walked into the room with a triumphant expression on his face.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" Dean snapped at him, eyes snapping toward the door and opening his mouth to start complaining or screaming (probably screaming) at someone.

"I'm your medical proxy, genius," Sam said, "I told them you were in no position to make decisions like that 'cos you're fricking brain-damaged."

"I should have asked for a fucking restraining order!"

Dean was livid. And no one could run that mouth like Dean Winchester. He ragged on Sam so hard he was getting his kid brother angry too. But Sam was at least as tenacious as Dean, and nothing was going to make him change his mind. He was rejoining his brother on the hunt even for just a little while, and nothing, not even the very person he was trying to help, was going to stop him.

On day four, Lisa told him Dean tried to check himself out AMA, except Sam had wisely not yet lifted the medical proxy thing. It was Sam's turn to go livid except he just took a deep breath, and weighed his options.

"If he checks out now," he asked when he sought out Dr. Mathis, "What can we expect?"

"Well he's recovering nicely," Mathis explained, "If he gets a scrip for the pneumonia and takes it easy for a couple of weeks, he'll be fine. Some coughing and breathing issues, sure. The broken bones and cuts from surgery will hurt for awhile too, but nothing he can't live with, if he has the proper meds. If I had my way though, I'd keep him a week more. But from the look of things, if he's careful, he should be okay."

"Any chance of this same thing becoming a problem again in the future?" Sam asked.

"There's always a chance," Mathis said, "But the recurrence of this kind of thing, especially since the tumors are benign are pretty slim. Many patients have made full recoveries."

"Thanks, doc," Sam said, nodding excitedly, as he formulated a plan. He appeared by Dean's door, wondering what sort of technique he'll be going against, today.

"Hey Dean," Sam said, cautiously, as his brother lifted his head to look at him. He still looked very ill, but he was all there and his eyes were sharp, shifting a little as if he was contemplating what to shove down his kid brother's throat also.

"Hey," Dean said, warily, watching as his brother stepped into the room. His eyes were thoughtful. It struck Sam that Dean was probably wondering why he wasn't mad. Sam sat down on the bed, by his brother's arm, and let him sweat about it a little.

"So, ah..." Dean hesitated, "I guess you haven't lifted that my-brother-is-brain-damaged thing."

Sam's brows quirked. "Should I have?"

"I guess not," Dean said, chuckling a little.

Sam sighed, "Listen, Dean... I know you don't want me going back with you--"

"It's not that--"

"Listen a moment," Sam said, insistently, "But I want to tell you that this is already how it's gonna be, okay? Only for a little while, I promise. Okay? Only for a little while. I'm not gonna let everything go."

"It's easy to say that now, Sammy," Dean said, "But the farther you are from here, the harder it is to go back. Doesn't taking a leave cut you off of the free ride? The truth this time, Sam."

"It does violate the contact," Sam muttered, "But I'm really good at what I do. You know I am. I can always find something else--"

"No," Dean insisted, "I can't live with that."

"I can't live with you stumbling out of here on your own," Sam told him, imploringly, "Only for a little while, Dean, okay? Work with me here." He took a deep breath, "So. I have an idea. You must be climbing the walls, huh? Wanna get out of here? I spoke to your doctor. He said with the right meds and rest, it's safe for you to check out. But you're not checking out without me. So. Work with me, bro. Work with me and we get out of here. What'll it be?"

Sam waited with baited breath. It was a really, really good deal, wasn't it? Dean hated hospitals, and Sam was offering him a way out. Except of course, he had to accept Sam's help first.

Dean chewed at his lip. "Nah."

Sam's brows must have shot to the ceiling. "Nah?"

"I'm..." Dean's gaze shifted away from his brother, "Not yet. I'm not feeling so great today, bro. I just... you mind if I sleep off this funk for a little while?"

Sam frowned in worry and suspicion. But the worry won. The worry _always _wins, so Sam left and let him sleep, ushering in the final stage of Dean's campaign.

Arguing with Sam hadn't worked. Reasoning didn't either. Nor did going AMA. It was apparently time for grand gestures, as Dean plotted out his own _Great Escape_.

Except it didn't turn out so great.

That night, Dean tore at his IV's and slipped into his street clothes and snuck out the fire escape and made his huffing way toward his car. He wove dizzily as he tried thrice to open the door before succeeding. He sank on the driver's seat, and leaned his aching head on the rest. He coughed helplessly, a hand clutching at his aching chest, futile and weakening. He lost consciousness soon afterwards.

Sam found him when he returned to the hospital later that day, just to check if his brother was feeling better. He passed by the Impala everyday on his way to the doors of the hospital, and it always looked a little bit forlorn on the lot. There was something about it thats seemed different that day, not-quite so alone, and he realized that the only times the fricking car _felt_ like that was when Dean was inside it. Heart pounding, he ran for the car, and found exactly what he thought he would: Dean slumped against the window and the door on the driver's side, looking gray and and _absent_.

The door was unlocked; this wasn't typical Dean, but sometimes, _sometimes_, Sam really could give some credence to his brother's unblinking, unyielding certainty that the stupid car always looked after them. Sam wrenched the door open, and caught Dean as he slid, as if boneless, from the seat.

Dean jerked instinctively at the fall, but was too far gone to do anything else. Sam shakily held him close, placed fingers to the throbbing pulse at his neck, murmuring, "You're all right, you're all right..."

"Sammy," Dean whispered, eyes cracking open, as he shifted to get a good angle to look at his brother's face.

"What?" Sam asked him.

"That doctor," he licked his lips, closed his eyes for a moment to let the world settle down, "The idiot who said I was well enough to get out. Fire his ass."

Sam snorted at him, but just held him tighter. "He said with meds and proper care, you stupid jerk. I should be mad at you right now."

"But what?" Dean asked, taking a whistling breath that made him hiss and wince. The world was spinning again, apparently, because he closed his eyes.

"Look at me, bro," Sam implored him, shaking him a little until he complied, "How long are we gonna do this dance, Dean? How far do you wanna go with this? I'm sticking with you. I'm not going anywhere. That's that."

And the gauntlet was thrown down. Sam had said it with finality, and nothing was going to make him change his mind. _Nothing_. He was practically daring Dean to change his mind perforce.

"It's not supposed to be like this," Dean muttered, shutting his eyes again, and gripping Sam's sleeve as he coughed, "When I went to see you. One night, that's all I needed. I didn't want anything else, I don't want this. When I let you leave you were supposed to go somewhere nicer. You had every right not to answer my calls, or, or be busy. I knew that. I just needed one night, and I don't know why but you gave it. You shouldn't have, but you did. I'm cool with that, Sammy. 'S all I needed. You can go. You should go. You know you want to go."

Sam blinked at the tears that came unbidden to his eyes. "Let's just get you back inside, Dean," he said, quietly, rising to his feet and taking his brother up with him. Dean sagged against him, blinking slowly as if he was half there and half somewhere else.

"This isn't working," Sam muttered when he tried taking the first step away from there and they both stumbled on each other's legs. He shifted his grip, and even half-conscious and slipping further, Dean understood full-well what he intended to do.

"Don't--" Dean begged, brokenly, when his favorite Sasquatch began to lift him off his feet. His eyes rolled back in his head with the change of altitude, and they were both grateful he finally passed out.

" " "

His little excursion set back his recovery by days, both in terms of his healing body and the caution of his 'captors.' It set back his self-confidence a little bit too; what an embarrassing effort, not even out the parking lot? _God_, he had no face to show anywhere anymore, and that was _before_ his stupid kid brother had the gall to carry him back and that was just something he didn't even want to think about.

Dean wanted to kick himself thrice over the head for the stupid stunt. He should have made sure he could hack an escape before trying, because now his brother and the staff were infinitely more cautious. He dealt with it the best way he knew how: a pretend-defeat, just until he got enough strength to make a successful attempt.

He suffered through the ministrations. Looked appropriately chastised when Sam ribbed him about the failed attempt. He slept early, he ate well. He took meds without complaint. He let his brother hover. He even let Sam push him around in a fricking wheelchair sometimes, just to go out and get some air. The truce held nicely, and it was even pleasant when they talked about random everyday things. Just a bit sad, because even as they talked, Dean plotted his escape and suspected that Sam was preparing to stop him also.

Sam had thrown down the gauntlet, insisted that he was sticking around. But he had to understand that Dean was dead-serious about leaving him behind if it meant Sam would have a better life too.

" " "

There were a great many things about the Winchester family that occasionally prompted the idea that perhaps they were cursed.

Some of the more famous so-called cursed bloodlines fell on the Kennedys of course, but there were the Lees and the Brandos - which Dean's pop-culture oriented mind found fascinating- and across history there were the Romanovs and the Habsburgs - which Sam was more interested in - just to name a few. Their father hadn't at all been interested in attributing all of their misfortunes to this, however, and squashed the idea even as his boys just started to word them, during one of those quiet motel nights and Sam had his turn on the TV and the three of them were therefore stuck watching a documentary.

_"That's supernatural ain't it dad?" Dean asked during the commercial break, his face looking pensive. Sam's beside him was more earnest and eager, as if he was excited about the idea that they may have found the answer to _everything_. The two teenagers were sitting on the floor side by side, legs stretched before them and leaning on the bed. It was unhealthily close to the TV, but the remote control was acting up._

_"It's just a lot of crap," John said, "It's just a numbers game, Dean."_

_"What do you mean?" Sam asked._

_"These people live extraordinarily dangerous lives," John pointed out, "If you're on the path of a gun most of the time, you're bound to get shot. You ride a plane too many times, you increase your chances of dying in a crash, 's all."_

_"But there's cursed lands," Sam pointed out, "Cursed objects. Cursed individuals. Why not families?"  
_

_"It's possible," John admitted, "But I've never seen it. 'Sides, so what, huh? You can't stop a curse, you can only get out of its way. There's no escaping your blood, is there?"_

The idea that they were cursed was promptly dropped after that. It would have been more depressing to discover that they were and not be able to do anything about it, after all. Besides, the Winchesters were blessed in many ways too.

There was the uncanny physical instincts, that were both innately there and nurtured by John's training. The boys were unquestionably born smart also. The looks didn't hurt either, John surprisingly realized this as his boys grew up handsome (and rightfully abusive of this) right before his eyes. Wily Dean played charming and obstinate or mysterious and brooding, depending on the kind of female. The blond rake and rebel. Sam, on the other hand, owned a different set of cards, but no less effective (occasionally more). He had the lonely orphan boy look down pat. People didn't have to be asked to help him, or give him information. He had the ability to attract fricking _volunteers_. They were born con-men, these Winchesters, and it was by some higher power's graces that their gifts were oriented toward the good.

There was, however, one very inconvenient Winchester talent that the three of them tended to occasionally hate. It was the ability to just seemingly _vanish_ off of the face of the Earth.

They used it when hiding from the law, not the least of which was Child Services. And occasionally, they used it when hiding from each other.

John Winchester was unmatched in this, of course, and Sam had taken to this talent also, in the turbulent teenage years that preceded the ultimate escape to Stanford. Dean, lagging a distant third, was the one saddled with pulling them back.

This was John and Sam fighting: a motel room and two slamming doors. One of the doors was to the bathroom, where someone had decided to hole up and cool off. The other door led outside. John and Sam took turns on which doors to take. Sometimes, just to ease up on the misery of the situation, Dean would make a bet with himself on who would take which door for this round. He knew them well enough to almost always be right.

The one taking the door out of the room would always need some sort of searching afterwards, of course, which fell on him. Out of sheer practice, though he lagged in the hiding talent, Dean led like no other in the searching department. He was very good at finding his dad or Sam, whoever was away. It didn't even have to be physically hiding. He was just as good at drawing them out of themselves, in darker, bleaker days.

But he was a Winchester through and through too, and though lacking in practice, when Dean wanted to hide, he could be just as good as his father and brother.

One day, Sam stepped into Dean's room and just found him _gone_.

" " "

A day after that, half-insane with the search for his brother, Sam turned on his laptop to find an e-mail from his academic advisor, who was expressing his relief that Sam had reconsidered taking his leave and welcoming him back into the semester.

He growled under his breath. Looked like his idiot brother was busy making calls since getting out. Just not to him.

Sam tried Dean's cellphone again. It went straight to voice mail. He was surprised he hadn't filled up the box yet. The first messages he sent out were imploring. _Dean please, you're not well yet... I'm worried, call me... Are you okay, please call me..._

He wasn't an idiot, he knew what Dean was trying to do, and he appreciated that. But the ones after the imploring messages were helplessly angrier. _You're such an asshole... Selfish prick... This doesn't change anything... I'll still skip school, except this time I'll be looking for you, not after you... This doesn't change anything, damn it. Call me..._

The ones after that kind of swam the thin line between the two, depending on his mood.

"Let me know you're not lying dead in a ditch somewhere," he snapped after the beep, before hanging up smartly.

He called up Bobby, asked if he'd been in touch with Dean. The older hunter said that Dean called him some hours back, just checking on the jobs he had passed over.

"Is something going on?"

"Just..." Sam bit out, "Dean being Dean. You know."

"Everything all right?" Bobby asked.

"No," Sam sighed, "But what's new? Thanks, Bobby."

Sam took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Was Dean just expecting him to stop looking, go back to school? He had searched hospitals in the area, and no one matching Dean's description was there. He searched motels, hotels, inns, beds and breakfasts. He stopped by diners and asked hot waitresses (Dean's weakness). He even went to shelters. It seemed that at the first taste of freedom, Dean wisely left California, and the road was too wide from there, the country too damn big.

He knew Dean was more-or-less fine. He'd spoken with Bobby. He'd e-enrolled Sam with his academic advisor. But for how long, huh? He needed Sam, needed someone watching his back, needed someone who could tell him _Dude. Stop a moment. Breathe..._

Sam sighed, and looked down at his cellphone. He's exhausted everything he could think of. Tracing Dean's cellphone had been futile. Calling up their father's old friends was also useless. He even tried to trace the prescription drugs he knew Dean was taking, for any thefts or scrip pick-ups in the area. That led nowhere too.

The last thing on the list was calling up John Winchester.

It was not a promising prospect, but he was getting desperate. Calling up his dad... who'd have thought hurling curses at each other wouldn't be the last thing they said to each other, huh? Calling up dad was like swallowing a bitter, bitter pill. Of cyanide. But what else could he do.

This was about _Dean_, now. Dean had always been the only one who can make the hunting life bearable. Dean had been the only one who could ask him to stay. And, apparently, the only one who could make him come back. If he can't swallow his resentment for Dean, he couldn't do it at all.

He grimaced, shut his eyes, and pressed the call button on his father's name before he changed his mind. The phone rang six times, before falling to the machine. Sam exhaled in inexplicable relief.

"Dad," he said, mouth dry, "Uh... this is Sammy."

_As if he wouldn't be able to tell..._

"Dad call me when you get this," he said, "It's about Dean. He's really sick. The doctors, they ah... they had to open him up. And then he ran off hiding somewhere. He's not that well yet. I'm worried. Has he called you? I know it's probably the last thing you wanna do but if you hear anything... call, will you?"

He hasn't hung up for a full minute before his phone started ringing. He snapped it up the moment he saw his father's name except, placing the phone breathlessly to his ear and listening to his father's earthy breathing for the first time in a long time, he didn't quite know what to say.

The man on the other end of the line was apparently just as clueless, and Sam wondered if the twinge he felt in his heart was him missing his father, even just a little bit. Did John Winchester feel the same way? But did that matter, really, since it was probably something he would never say?

_I'm sorry... I miss you..._

"I'll take care of it," came the more characteristic, clipped reply, before John hung up. Sam blinked at the tears in his eyes. It hurt like hell, but he believed his father anyway.

He sat on his desk, just gathering his breath. Feeling more alone than ever. He ran a weary hand over his face, and half-blindly reached for the long-neglected school books on his desk. He had a lot of catching up to do.

" " "

"You little snitch."

Sam had answered his phone call at the first ring, and it was the first sputtering thing that came out of Dean's mouth.

"Got a call from dad, did you?" came the sleepy reply. He woke up Stanford. Great. Add that to the list of injustices he had done against Sam these last few days. He heard Sam shifting in bed, gaining awareness and with awareness, irritated acid too.

"You ditched me," Sam snapped at him, "Where the hell are you?"

"Nowhere," Dean replied, "Only bitches send grown-ups, Sammy."

"Where the hell are you?" Sam asked again, venomously.

"I'm fine," Dean insisted, "I'm alive, I'm breathing, I'm taking the medicine, I'm not taking any job, and dad called me up and got sassy with me so yeah, you get what you want, I'm taking it slow, okay? Your turn. Gone back to class yet?"

"No," Sam replied, "I'm coming after you--"

"Sam," Dean growled, "Damn it, I'm fine--"

"Yeah but for how long?" Sam asked, "We dodged a bullet with this one, but what about the next time? I can't stand it, Dean. I can't have another call like that last one, it'll kill me, bro. _Kill_ me."

"Don't be so melodramatic," Dean muttered. He sighed. "What's it gonna take, Sammy? Let me be, live your life there?"

"Nothing," Sam guaranteed him.

Dean recognized the resolve. Sam was as sure about leaving Stanford to join his brother as he had been about leaving his brother to go to Stanford in the first place, years ago...

And then lightning struck, illuminating _everything_. When Sam left for college, there seemed no stopping him either. _Nothing_, except for Dean.

The realization warmed him, understanding the extent of Sam's love, his loyalty and devotion to his older brother. Dean had been the only one who could keep Sam hunting. All he had to do was ask. And apparently, he was also the only one who could bring him back also.

But as soon as the realization warmed him, it burned him too... burned him with the sense of responsibility that went with that peculiar power. Because no one can doubt or question his love for his kid brother either.

He realized, bitterly, that being the only one who could keep Sam, he was also the only one who could keep him _away_.

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat.

_Sorry, bro_...

The easiest way to get Sam off his back was to hit him where it hurt the most. Kid had the most developed sense of guilt Dean had ever seen.

"What did you think was gonna happen when you left, huh?" Dean asked, "You wouldn't have left if you didn't know I was covered? What a crock of shit."

"What?" the voice on the other end of the line was a hurt, broken whisper. Dean knew exactly where to hit, and it had to be extremely hard, so that the punch landed right at the place where Sam's logic couldn't outrun his pain.

"Somewhere inside you you knew," Dean continued, closing his eyes at his own harshness, but swallowing it down like a bitter pill, knowing it was ultimately for Sam's own good, "You know what the job is. Someone was bound to get hurt. Someone could die. And you'd be somewhere else. When you chose, you were willing to live with that."

"Dean--"

"This is what it means," Dean went on, ignoring him, "This is how it is, what that choice meant. Live with it. You chose, Sam. I don't mind that you're going after what you want, bro, that's fine, you got a right. But for god's sake, have some integrity and just live with it. And leave me alone."

"Dean--"

He was just relieved he didn't have to look at Sam's eyes. This was like Sam, packing for college and avoiding looking at him. Today, this phone call, it was his turn. This was Dean, walking away. Walking away because he didn't want to destroy his brother's life. He had asked for just one night, damn it, one night because he thought he was dying. He didn't want Sam to give up everything. He's already taken so much.

"Dad'll take care of me," Dean continued, mercilessly, "I'm sorry I even bothered you about this, bro. I really am. Just... do what you gotta do there, all right? Dad and I will be fine. We don't need you to look after us. We haven't needed you since you left. I ah... I really shouldn't have drawn you back, and I'm sorry. You... ah...You were never one of us, you were always different. I get that now."

No more imploring 'Deans' at the end of the line. Just dead, broken silence. Dean knew he had succeeded. But not all wins were victorious. God, his chest ached.

"Just do your thing there," Dean said, softly, "We don't need you."

"You don't mean that," came the quiet, shattered reply.

"I can," Dean said, boldly, "I can mean it if I had to, Sammy. Don't make me."

_Don't hate me_...

"Fine," Sam said, his tone clipped, "I'm done."

_With all this. With you..._

"Good," Dean said, matching the tone, "Me too."

_I'll never bother you again. I'll never lure you back again. I'll never hurt you like this again. Live out there, Sammy. Dream, and live for the both of us._

But they couldn't end it this way, could they?

A characteristic recant: "Be careful out there, Dean," Sam said, quietly.

Grave, weighty silence. Expectant. And Dean had never disappointed him before, wasn't about to start now.

The characteristic response: "Give them a run for their money, bro."

And they both hung up.

**Epilogue and Afterword in the Next Chapter...**


	4. Chapter 4

Author:Mirrordance

Title: One Night

Summary:He was going under the knife tomorrow. He wasn't sure if he was going to wake up. It was perfectly excusable to torment his estranged brother at Stanford for one night, wasn't it? Set Pre-Pilot, that last time Dean bothered Sam before Episode 1.

" " "

**One Night**

" " "

Epilogue

" " "

Years later, when Dean was so stretched taut searching for his father that there was just no more resisting the pull of seeking his younger brother, Sam's cautious opening salvo had been the same, making his own reply nostalgic. He wondered if Sam noticed.

_"Dean, what the hell are you doing here?"_

_"Well I was looking for a beer..."_

He thought about it, as he and Sam went down the stairs of the walk-up apartment building.

"...You can't just break in, in the middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you."

Dean knew it wasn't just the breaking in the middle of the night thing that was prohibitive. It was also the _you-smashed-me-the-last-time-I-tried-to-help-you_ thing. It was also the _I'm-living-my-life-like-you-told-me-to_ thing. It was also the _I-thought-you-don't-need-me-anymore_ thing. The Winchesters had a lot of 'things...'

"You're not hearing me, Sammy," Dean insisted, "Dad's _missing_. I need you to help me find him."

He had used the word _need_ intentionally, hoping the familiar word, once used to hurt Sam, would now inspire him to help, by its sheer force.

Sam gave him a list of examples wherein their father had emerged more-or-less unscathed. His last few years being the exiled Winchester in Stanford had given rise to a lot of comforting illusions, not the least of which were highlights Dean himself had provided, with quirky postcards or the occasional e-mail, all made in some effort at curbing his brother's guilt, or keeping him motivated to stay in school by assuring him that the two older Winchesters had everything more-or-less in control. It just wasn't very cool for these things to be used against you, though...

"Not for this long," Dean said, "Now are you gonna come with me or not?"

"I'm not," Sam replied, as if it was obvious. Dean should have known the wall he built between them was made high and hard.

"Why not?" he asked, pretending to be obtuse, just buying some time to think.

"'Cos I swore I was done hunting for good."

_You would_, Dean thought, miserably, thinking that this was partly his fault. God, he wouldn't have come here if he wasn't so desperate. Didn't Sam get that? He was at the very end of his rope. He's barely keeping it together. Their _father_ was missing...

Sam swore he was done hunting, sure. And Dean swore he was done bothering his brother to go back, back to the danger, back to the dark. He never swore lightly, _hell no_. But this was their dad, and he didn't know what else to do. He didn't want to be searching hospitals and fricking _morgues_ alone anymore. That last one, that last dude with the broken face and wearing clothes that looked like dad's had brought him to his damn knees...

He found his mouth running on auto-pilot, defending their job, not quite willing to go talk about his desperation just yet.

"Do you think mom would have wanted this for us?"

God, he's told that to Sam once before, right? He wanted to kick himself. He walked out instead, his brother hot on his heels the way Sam got when he knew he was going to go win a conversation and all he had to do was keep going. It bristled Dean.

"So what are you gonna do?" Dean snapped, "You just gonna live some normal, apple-pie life Is that it...?"

"...Is that why you ran away?"

But he reined in his temper. He needed Sam. He needed Sam desperately. He wanted Sam safe too, wanted Sam to have that apple-pie life. But life and death always came on top of preferences. He just needed Sam on his corner for this round. He just needed to find their dad. He'll put Sam right back on track, after. Everything stops until they get their dad back. All the other broken pieces afterward he can take care of.

"I can't do this alone," he said.

"Yes you can," Sam insisted, because this belief was something he had learned to live with.

"Yeah well I don't want to," Dean confessed. The first real, blinding truth of this conversation. To which Sam responded with a weary sigh. It was a very fair start...

"You know in almost two years I never bothered you, never asked you for a thing," Dean said after a moment, and letting the more important things go unsaid, lodged in between the words and spaces.

_I wouldn't have broken my word for peanuts._

_This is real._

_I need you._

_The last time I sought you out I thought I was dying._

_This time, our father might be._

_I just need you for a little while. _

_You gave me one night before. This is our father. Give me a little bit--_

"All right," Sam said, resigned, and something in his eyes told Dean his brother understood the magnitude of a situation that would make Dean come here and bring him back to this life he hated. He could question the world, he could spit on the job, but he could never doubt Dean's love for him.

"I'll help you find him," Sam promised.

THE END

June 23, 2008

**" " "**

**AFTERWORD**

**" " "**

**I. Massive Thanks and Replies**

First off, I want to say a shout out to all who read and especially all who reviewed. I keep saying I can't seem to get a handle on a decent number of the fic readers of this fandom so I'm glad when any of my fics get enthusiastic responses. Reviews really are fuel; I may have mentioned the fic was far from done when I posted Chapter 1 a few days ago and now boom, we're all done somehow. I don't know how you guys do it for me, but thank you for the well wishes and the encouragement:

To heather03nmg, Pheobe, krimson, Ster1, deangirl1, Brenny, the lovely and irrepressible Mandy, AliasMe, libalelerette10, beth9874, Kirsty, happycabbage75, CMS Cipriano, detexer, snchills, DreamBrother, teal-lover, Lucian32, alwaysateen, Spooky-girl, iluvsprntrl, zuimar, chocolate-chihuahua, angi, deabloversnsm67, lizard971, apieceofcake, amy, Esoteric Ink, babyreaper, tacpebs, Merisha, DeanBeanWinchester, Tomash, Yammy1983, Darthnikki. I sincerely hope I captured everybody; I can get cross-eyed sometimes so if you gave me a review and I missed you, give me a shout out! :)

**II. On The Depiction of The Winchesters' Brotherly Dynamic**

These guys are so hard to write! The characters are just so heavily layered and nuanced. The secrets they keep from each other, alongside the love and the loyalty, alongside the casual, dry humor. The balance is just so tricky. Some of your reviews in particular shed some light for me on this issue.

Pheobe had used the term "Orbit" when referring to how the brothers reacted and I couldn't for the life of me find a better word than that. It's so rich a metaphor; revolving around each other showed the distance and at the same time the sheer magnetism that brings them back to each other each time. They could move away, but were always drawn back. I just found that perceptive and ideal.

Ster1 cited a complicated mix of loyalty, fear, anger, comfort, unwavering love and, my favorite – resentment. The idea of that didn't even cross my mind until Ster1 commented on the complex relationship as having a sense of resentment also. I loved that. In my fic _Home Road_, I mentioned somewhere that love and hate weren't opposites, they were brothers. Because loving inspired pain and pain inspired hatred. The resentment angle is always there, but all because of love. Krimson similarly commented on the distance between the brothers as love and I think that's one of the central themes of the story: Sam avoiding calls and visits because he just gets worried. Sam looking away from Dean while packing because he knows he might stay. Dean pushing Sam away so he can have a better life. It was distance but all out of love.

Distance in love is also why the story is called _One Night_. One night... it's just a snatching of each other, having each other for a little while before letting the other go. I made sure this phrase was recurring throughout the fic too, just to make it feel more round. The phrase appears (I think) seven times within this story, haha...

1. thought by Dean as a rationale for the negligibly short time he would be bothering his brother in Stanford because he was sick;

2. mentioned by the nurse as how one night with a loved one can improve the health of someone;

3. mentioned by Dean several times when he told Sam that's all he needed and Sam had given him so much more;

4. thought by Dean when he was imploring Sam to give some time to their dad, as he had been given one night before.

The _One Night_ idea had become such a huge part of the fic that it's hard to believe that originally, the fic's title was _One Night, One Morning_. The original fic was just two scenes: a night in Stanford and a morning in the hospital, just before Dean checks himself out and leaves Sam. But as always, the muses have their way and it just evolved. I never even thought I'd be including snatches of the Winchesters growing up but there it went, haha.

**III. Tying In With the Series**

There were some tricky issues that I felt I needed to "clean up" so that this fic feels like it fits in with the series.

A. Sam swearing away from hunting

He says this in the _Pilot_. It makes sense for him to do that out of the falling out of his father. But why shun Dean? Why drop Dean along with his old life? Why not answer his calls? I made _One Night_ as a kind of answer to that: (1) Sam cut himself off to avoid the crippling worry about his family; and (2) Dean must have pushed him away also.

B. Dean swearing away from bothering Sam

In _One Night_, Dean realizes his effect on Sam's life; he could make Sam stay hunting. He could make Sam return to hunting. And finally, he realizes he can also keep Sam away from hunting and pursue a better life, which he does at the end of the fic. So why does he draw Sam back during the Pilot? I had a hard time with this one, so I drew on some Dean-quotes from throughout the series to make his thoughts feel 'characteristic' and put them in my epilogue, which is of course, as every fan-gal knows, the first time we meet the grown-up boys in _Supernatural._ I slipped in these three things:

"He's barely keeping it together" was inspired by Dean talking about having nothing else but Sam and his father in _Salvation_;

"He didn't know what else to do" was inspired by Dean leaving a message for his father to join them in _Home_; and

"Everything stops until they get their dad back" was inspired by Dean convincing Sam that they had to drop everything and focus on saving their father in _Devil's Trap_.

These three things magnify (1) the importance these two people had in his life; (2) his desperation and (3) his willingness to drop everything and do nothing else but keep them safe. Basically, I wanted to make sure it was plausible for Dean to break his word of never bothering Sam again, out of desperation to save their father.

**IV. My Other Projects**

Well if anyone's interested, I'm still hard at work on _Home Road_. I'm hoping to get it done before the series picks up in the fall. It's another post-_No Rest for the Wicked_ effort. It's done in my head, really, I know the exact progression of events, haha, but i got side-tracked by this _One Night_ idea and it just went on from there. But _Home Road_ is definitely a priority now, and I'm hoping it'll pick up a few more readers and reviewers, especially since it tends to feel like alien territory to me sometimes.

Anyway, if you liked _One Night_, take a look at _Things We Know_, which was the first fic I posted for S_upernatural_. They're a lot alike except _Things We Know_ doesn't end as pretty, haha (to say the least).

Thanks for reading and I hope to catch y'all at the next posts. All the best!


	5. Sequel Preview: Once More

Author:Mirrordance

Title:Once More

Summary:Life's almost good now that Sam's back on the road with him, but then the tumors are back too, and Dean thinks he might be dying again. Sequel to "One Night," and set during the episodes "Scarecrow" and "Faith."

**Note**: Hi to all who bookmarked "One Night!" Below is a preview of the sequel, "Once More," which has just been posted at . I hope you look it up, and see if it's also something you might enjoy. Thanks for the alert and hope you like this one too!

" " "

Once More

" " "

PREVIEW

" " "

_It's not gonna kill me._

_No, but it'll hurt like hell_.

_Flash of light, moment of mind-numbing brilliance, just before it was eaten by consuming black, and suddenly he was on the ground, and nothing of his body could move, nothing of his mind could make him want to--_

_Involuntary breath._

_And damn but Sam was right, it hurt, it hurt like a sonofabitch--_

Dean Winchester shot awake coughing, choking on the coughs, clutching his bruised chest, shaking with exertion. You know you've reached a new low when your nightmares equaled your memories, and he was just reflecting on that heretofore undiscovered, depressing fact, when he felt Sam's Sasquatch paws on his back, slapping, rubbing, telling him to breathe through it, asking him if he was okay.

"G' back t' sleep," he growl-gasped at his younger brother, pushing himself to his feet, and lumbering toward the bathroom. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would not be followed; their time apart and how it came to be had conditioned the both of them toward giving each other wary spaces. But he knew Sam wouldn't be following his request to be left alone completely either, because their time together _before_ Stanford had been deep and ingrained, like blood in their veins. That blood was running on thinners right now, sure, but it was still there and all damn over.

Dean snapped on the bathroom lights, kept his head lowered as he grabbed water from the tap, drank some of it. His mouth tasted funny. Very, very lightly coppery, like his teeth were bleeding. He rinsed off his mouth, fairly confident that if he was bleeding inside from that damned shot, he'd be having it much worse than this, wouldn't he?

Still, if there was something inside him that prayed, well... it _prayed_. He hoped it was nothing. He hoped he could just put this damned nightmare-memory behind him, put Sam's trigger-finger completely and absolutely in the past. Getting hurt worse would just fuck everything up all the more, and the both of them were just badly dented right now.

He leaned toward the cracked, smoky old mirror. He opted out of a shirt sometime after Sam had fallen sleep, in deference to the tender skin on his chest and to make sure that Sam would not see how gloriously the late Dr. Ellicott's handiwork blazed across Dean's skin. He spared the injury a thoughtful glance, before he grit his teeth and stared at the neat white rows, turned his head from side to side, then opened his mouth wide, searching for the source of the bleed from his teeth.

The coppery taste was gone, the search too much of a bother, so he rinsed off his face, shut the light, and went back out to the dingy motel room.

He realized with a grimace that this room, now soaked by the dim light of a dull morning, was one of their worst ones _ever_. Hard to notice these things after a sleepless night running around in a haunted asylum with your chest shot to hell, and you stop at the first place you find. But in situations like this, things always looked worse in the morning, and some motel rooms were just _damned_ ugly, like waking up with a woman you'd never have taken to bed if you were a measure of sober the night before.

"You okay?" Sam asked, voice still deep from sleep, brown eyes discreetly drifting to the bruises he, under the influence of the dead, mad doctor of said asylum, had inflicted on his brother just hours before. He was seated on the corner of Dean's bed, anxious and uncertain.

"Just choked on my spit or something," Dean lied, absurdly vaguely, thinking it was ridiculous enough to be possibly true. Or maybe not thinking at all. _Whatever_.

"That's really gross, Dean," Sam said, looking mildly skeptical and heavily disgusted. Again, their time apart had taught them doubt, in this wacky dance. But, _again_, their time together before that had also taught them to _tango _too.

So Sam shifts tactics. He had, after all, always preferred actionable routes. "What can I do?"

Referring to the injury and not the spit, unfortunately, Dean realized. So much for the half-hearted lie.

"It's just a fugly bruise, Florence," Dean told him, slinking back beneath the covers of his bed. He tried not to think about where the hell these damn sheets have been and who may have laid there doing what before him, as he settled in for sleep.

"I've had plenty worse, you know that," he assured Sam, before realizing that was never really an assurance, and--

"That's not reassuring," Sam pointed out, making Dean think, _Typical_.

"Live with it," he growled, shifting and wincing, closing his eyes. He nudged Sam's hip with his foot, lightly kicking him off his bed, "Go to sleep, Sam."

"You mad at me?" Sam asked, after a long moment.

_Am I_? Dean wondered.

"Do we have to talk about this?" Sam pressed.

_Do we_? Dean asked himself, vaguely remembering he must have been asked this same question before.

"He latched onto you and amplified feelings of anger," Dean droned, like it was a mantra he'd been telling himself also, "It's not your fault."

"But _are_ you mad at me?" Sam asked, because it didn't take a genius to know that these were two different things. It might not be Sam's fault factually, but what did Dean _feel_ about all this?

"Are you mad at _me_?" Dean retorted, biting back the rest of it which was, _'Cos you're the one who shot_-- he kept his face turned away and his eyes closed, thinking, _I would really wanna fall asleep, like, right now_.

"I told you, Ellicott--"

"Nevermind," Dean cut him off, irritably, because Sam was being an evasive, coy bitch and because it didn't take a genius to know that these were two different things too. Ellicott made Sam shoot his brother, fine, but that didn't mean he planted the resentful thoughts in Sam's mind. He had fed off of that, but they were already inarguably _there_.

"Nevermind," Dean said again, "I told you I'm not in the mood and I just wanna sleep."

In afterthought, he added, because he imagined Sam's lonely face in the dull light as if he could actually, _actually_ see it, "It's not your fault, Sam."

Dean heard his brother take a calming breath, before the side of the bed where he was sitting rose with the loss of his warming weight, and the rustling of the sheets on the other bed indicated Sam was making an effort to head back to sleep too.

"I wonder," Sam murmured, "What he would have picked up from you if it was the other way around."

Dean's eyes opened at that.

He stared at the window in the room and the streaks of depressing, dull light going through the cheap, ages-old-and-thinned curtains, and wondered the same thing.

" " "

It was the first time he woke up crying Jessica's name with no Dean there to lend grudging comfort. There was no firm hand on his chest, bracing him as he arched and vainly reached for the sight of her, long-gone. There were no big-brother hazel eyes darkened by the night and by worry. No tight mouth, jerking with quiet words that at first Sam doesn't hear above the echoes of his cries and the beating of his heart, until the smell of the smoke clears and his mind returns home, and he knows his brother is saying _Sammy_, or _I gotcha_, or _It's just a dream, bro_, or _Come on back now._

He caught his breath and let the devastation devour him, wondered how deep and how long it would last, how much it would take from him, if he suffered through it alone.

_Hurts like hell_, he decided, imagining curly blond tendrils almost poetically catching fire at one end, then the flame winds and dances up, until the entire hair burns out. Every single strand of her hair burning out. Her eyes imploring him to save her, not understanding what was happening, expecting him to make things right. And her small mouth, moving, appropriately soundless, but he already knew that she too was crying for him.

He brushed angrily at tears that had welled over his eyes, and streaked down to his pillows. _God_, this room was ugly. The dull fucking light was depressing the hell out of him.

He rode the hurt, glancing his brother's deeply sleeping way.

_Mad at me_, he decided, miserably, just because the room was ugly, his dream was bad, and it was probably true. That was why Dean was ignoring him.

_But he wouldn't_, he thought, a breath before he accepted the idea with a deep knowledge. Dean was, for one reason or other, profoundly... forgiving. He was an open, unconventionally but remarkably naive, irrepressible soul. _Simple_, Sam allowed himself to think in weaker moments, because it felt condescending, except sometimes, there was just no two ways of looking at it. Simple did not equate to stupid, far from. It was just a question of, well, _simple_ preference. Dean was theoretically easy to please: nice car, good food, good music, good company (which included family, women and kids, and occasionally dogs). He bore scars - who didn't?- but no grudges. Just... wishes. No grudges, just... wishes. For instance, it was never quite _You-left-me-Sam_ much more than it was _I-wish-you-were-here_.

Which brought him back to the bare fact that his brother might be mad at him over that nasty asylum business, but ignoring him, especially in dreaming about Jessica, was downright impossible. The only other alternative was that he really was as busted-up tired as he had claimed.

Sam sighed, sat up, and still there was no movement from Dean. He leaned over and reached out, but his hand wavered, not quite knowing where to go. He settled for the turned shoulder.

"Dude."

Uncharacteristically light stirring.

"Dean--"

"Sleep," Dean groan-growled, irritably turning Sam's way, hazel eyes clouded and weary, half-open orbs settling on his younger brother's face and leveling out in realization and worry, "Sam...? You okay?" he asked a bit more lucidly, scrambling up to his elbows.

"No, no--" Sam's hands were waving around aimlessly again, and he felt embarrassed, "No, sleep. Sleep, please. I'm fine. I was just wondering if you were."

Dean rolled back his eyes and settled back down. He muttered something resignedly, something that sounded like 'Little brothers' in the same tone one would say 'Shit,' making Sam's mouth quirk.

"Good night, Dean."

" " "

Dean woke up once more during that timeless, eternal morning/night.

Instinctively light feet must have taken him to the bathroom without further incident, or disrupting his finally-asleep, exhausted, nightmare-plagued kid-brother. That was the extent of what he knew about getting there, because he thought he was in bed until his eyes focused on a blood-spattered sink, his head lowered down to the spoiled, aged white of it, as he caught his breath.

_This is a nightmare_, he thought.

_Or a memory_, he corrected himself, because these two things have been shuffling back and forth tonight. Inanely, he thought he could be more diplomatic and just say it's _a nightmare of a memory_ or _a memory of a nightmare_. Whatever. Point being, he'd been down this road once before, and that story ended years ago, when _f__ear was coughing up blood in a dim bathroom in the middle of nowhere, thinking _This is it, this is how I'm kicking it, and No one's ever gonna know_. I'm just gonna be some dead guy with eight fake credit cards in a ratty motel._

Ended, because he was fine now. Fine. And he was no longer alone, and someone's gonna know if he wasn't, and someone's gonna care, and he found that was actually far more _frightening _than being all alone.

_Is this real_? he wondered, lifting up his head and looking at his face on the mirror. Years ago, he had looked up like this too, finding a face pale and hallowed on a scarred mirror, lightly blood-spattered, just like the corners of his mouth.

_Is this now_? he wondered, and let his eyes rake through his face, searching desperately for a difference between today and yesterday, because he wasn't feeling well and he was desperately confused.

His eyes settled on the bruise on his chest.

The bruise that hadn't been there until Sam shot him with a salt round, a few hours ago. This was now. This was fucking _now_.

The realization burned him, made him cough again. He slapped a hand over his mouth, smothering the cough, making it worse, smothering it more. Fucking cycle that apparently was going to end only after he dies...

_You know you've reached a new low when your nightmares equaled your memories_, he had thought earlier that night. Except now was an even lower low, what with both these things becoming the present all over again.

_I'm dying again_, he thought, experimentally, because there was a chance that the bloody coughing was just a result of his chest injury after all. But there was something gut-hitting to the idea, something that made him know beyond a shadow of a doubt that his body remembered exactly how that first time felt, and this was what was happening again. And worse, the fact that it was happening again indicated a tendency, possibly even a _malignancy_ to the condition. The recent chest injury was likely just the aggravating factor that made the symptoms known, like before. But the disease must have been just inside him, waiting to take him.

_I'm dying again_, he thought _again_, opening the tap and letting the water wash the blood from his hands. He caught his breath as he worked, ridiculously thinking _Out damned spot_ as he wiped at the mirror and the sink obsessively, once, then once more over, before scanning the sink hungrily, searching for any bloodstain he might have missed.

_Clean_, he decided with a measure of uncertainty and resignation.

He glanced at the bathroom door, suddenly dreading going out.

He sighed, coughed lightly and was relieved to find no more blood this time, before hesitantly stepping out.

He was relieved to find that Sam was still asleep. He picked up his cellphone from where it lay on the night table between him and Sam's bed. He glanced at his brother; Sam was really out like a light. He dialed his father's number, and stepped inside the bathroom just as the call kicked into voice mail.

"Dad," he said, voice low and hushed and just a bit huskier from his ravaged throat, "You have to let us find you."

_I'm sick and Sam will need you_.

"You have to let us find you," Dean said again, wished he could say more. He hung up, placed the phone back on the night table, and crawled back to bed.

To be continued...


End file.
